


He's retiring permanently, and other funny lies Technoblade tells himself

by Prometeo (42gabi24)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Burns, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends, Eret Redemption (Video Blogging RPF), Family Dynamics, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, He/Him Pronouns for Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, LGBTQ Themes, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Drugs, Scars, Serious Injuries, Shapeshifter Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Supernatural Elements, Twins Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28501965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/42gabi24/pseuds/Prometeo
Summary: Letting Philza Minecraft flee from the ashes of L'manburg in grief was an oversight. Messing with the natural order of life, death, and everything in between was a mistake. Hurting what was Technoblade's was a death wish.Or Technoblade cares just a little bit more about Wilbur than what Dream had predicted and that changes things just enough to become a problem.
Relationships: Eret & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade
Comments: 70
Kudos: 247





	1. Technoblade likes turtles, especially when they distract him from the death of his twin brother

Techno watched the turtle eggs with a quiet sort of intensity. He's been at it the entire night. Nine hours of waiting and there wasn't a single crack on them, but that was all right, he was a patient man. He had a lot of time and no responsibilities.

"I think it's the cold, mate." Phil piped up from his own spot on the sand. The older man had bundled himself twice over, sky-blue coat over dark-blue haori. It was good to see the colors of the Empire again, Techno had missed it. He missed a lot of things.

"The voices say it's not." He declared, watching the condensed puff of smoke that came from his mouth disappear. " There are some weird calculations going on, so I suppose that it's a matter of time."

Phil tilted his head, thoughtful. Behind them the furnace burnt through the last of the coal they had put in it. Techno groaned as darkness swallowed them, the glowing embers snuffed out by a stiff antarctic breeze.

"How do the voices know? You never really explained it to me, are they some kind of like- gods?" It was an uninterested line of questioning, there was no desire to know on Phil's part- not _really_ \- just to understand. It was a neat little trick he liked to use when prying something out of Techno that he didn’t want to share. He should be angry that it still worked on him.

"I don’t know, but they know everything." He looked up. Dawn was approaching, he saw it in the way that distant monsters crept into dark corners and wet puddles. "It's all a big algorithm to them, everything is assigned a random value, and they can predict that value perfectly. Always. Every single rock's placement is calculated to appear as a random occurrence- every tree grows at a predictable pace even if it looks like nature's pulling the strings."

Phil hummed appreciatively. "That's useful. If you can calculate that, if you can... put it into numbers..." He appeared thoughtful as if he's planning ten steps ahead for every possibility. A normal person would say that it was depressing, to understand a design so beyond comprehension, to know that everything was planned- but no, Phil merely said it was 'interesting' and then proceeded to try and use it to his advantage. 

Terrifying man.

Techno cracked half a smile. "It is useful only when they want it to be. The bad thing is that they don't like to be ignored, the worse is, that I like to think for myself once in a while. It's a hassle when they want to be entertained at all times."

Phil tilted his head, the shadows of the night obscuring most of his features. "Are they... talking to you right now?"

"Almost always." Techno sighed, throwing a quick glance at the eggs. One had a small crack on its cream and teal shell. He rubbed his hands, clenching his fingers into fists to get the blood circulating. He didn't particularly want to speak about the voices right now. Not ever, really. 

He focused on them just in case. They liked the turtles at least, he's glad. He was afraid that they would riot if he did something 'boring', like watching turtles hatch- like living everyday life. Thankfully they liked the whole idea of retirement, even demons liked the idea of a nice cottage in the snow, go figure.

Phil silently offered a cooked potato, covered in butter and spices. Techno bit into it gratefully, a mild, buttery taste filling his mouth. They ate in silence, Phil getting up occasionally to warm himself near the campfire, fingerless gloves not enough to warm those calloused palms. 

Phil was getting old, Techno thought to himself. Well- as old as an immortal being that never ages can get old. He's getting tired, is more accurate. All that fighting, and conquering, and rebuilding again and again from the ashes took their toll on his poor, poor father.

Wilbur was the last straw on a camel which Techno didn't know existed. He supposed that it was a matter of time- even the quiet ones had their moments. It just happened that Wilbur had a dramatic streak to him and wanted to go out with a bang-

Oh, by all the gods old and new, Wilbur was fucking dead.

He shot up from his uncomfortable position on the sand almost brusquely, half-eaten potato dropping on the ground. The reflective surface of the small lake where they've set up the turtle farm was suddenly more dangerous than a thousand netherite swords. Phil startled from his hunched position near the warm flames, sending a bewildered look in Techno's direction.

"I just realized that, uhm- I'm freezing." He stuttered almost uncaring of the excuse he was about to give. The only thing he cared about was to get away from the cursed lake. "I need to grab something warm from the cottage."

"Alright," Phill nodded, though his piercing all-knowing gaze saw straight through his fleshy facade. Techno didn't hesitate before leaping over the fence. He practically ran to his house, made of wood and stone, every mirror stashed away or broken ~~in pure, blinding rage~~ absentmindedly.

He opened the door with a small groan of metal against rust, hinges frozen from the perpetual cold. The lanterns that lit the place had gone out during the night, leaving the house dark and cold. Techno climbed up to his bedroom, intent on following through with his excuse. Anything that would distract him enough from the gaping pit that threatened to swallow him whole. Even the voices had grown muffled, too quiet compared to the insistent buzzing in his ears.

He rummaged through the chest designated for his cloaks, resolutely ignoring the crimson capes lined with white fox-fur. Finally, he fished out a nice woolen coat, white as snow and perfect for blending in. He looked around the room, noting the sudden stillness in the air.

He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, making sure to feel every singular hair under his fingertips. He noted that it was getting longer again, growing out of the choppy haircut Dream had given him what felt a lifetime ago during their duel. He hadn't bothered to do anything with the horrendous cut after that, leaving the pink tresses to grow uneven. Lately, he had even avoided putting any golden clasps in the strands, too ~~depressed~~ lazy to bother.

His ears flicked in the direction of a stray sound. The entire house groaned and creaked occasionally, he wasn't known for his exceptional building skills after all. Grabbing the coat and a full sack of coal, he descended down onto the first floor. Phil, of all things, was fishing when he got back. Techno didn't dare disrupt him though, so he crept slowly towards their temporary campsite, placing the coal beside the furnace. He plopped down a few paces behind, scared of the water as if it were a pool of lava.

His father was a picture of serenity, posture relaxed and guard down, gently guiding the lure through the icy waters of the lake. Suddenly, the bobber dipped under the calm surface with a splash. Phil mumbled a small sound of surprise before deftly reeling in his catch. Out the water came a cod, golden-scaled and long-tailed.

The older man waved his catch in the air like a trophy, a big smile splitting his face in two. Techno returned the sentiment with a vague upturn of his lips that disappeared like a wisp of smoke in a snowstorm. Phil avoided the strong tail that splashed water everywhere with a laugh and killed the fish with a swift stroke of his ax.

"Is this dinner?" Techno asked as Phil began to debone the animal with deft flicks of his diamond knife. The older man paused in his task, sending a weird look in his direction.

"We already ate dinner, Techno."

His gaze involuntarily slid towards the potato he had thrown on the ground a few hours ago, probably hard as a rock from the cold. Phil frowned in concern while Techno tried his hardest to forget that the conversation ever happened. Instead, he preoccupied himself with trying to find out if he was still hungry. He wasn’t, thankfully. 

It would have been awkward.

"…Oh yeah." He tried to fill the sudden quiet.

They lapsed into a pointed silence during which Phil finished with the cod. The fish was gutted, salted, and then stored into a hole they had made into the frozen ground. Finally, Phil decided to address the elephant in the room, never one to let Techno avoid his problems.

“Wilbur made his choices.” His voice was quiet. Techno remembered Phil using that same tone of voice when he and Wilbur were younger and would get in trouble for hitting the other kids in the village too hard. Calm and quiet. There wasn't a hint of disappointment this time though, just sadness. Techno licked his lips wondering when was the last time he drank water.

“That he did.”

“Do you agree with them?” 

Yes- maybe- not entirely. He understood where Wilbur came from. To want something so badly for no other reason than to make sure it’s safe, only for it to be taken away again, and again simply because others knew how coveted it was. He knew how that felt, though never for something as big as a country. Techno suspected that he would have gone just as insane at some point. However. The worst mistake Wilbur committed, was to put his trust in others and then act surprised when they inevitably betrayed him. That is- _was_ the main difference between the two of them.

“I can’t say that I appreciate the results.” He said at length.

Phil hummed. “What a mild way to put it.”

“I am… mild.”

They laughed at the awkward turn of phrase, Techno’s voice a faint rasp in the cold wind. He buried his face in his hands, he didn't know where to put himself. He didn't know how to justify the space he occupied. He groaned in his hands, not knowing whether he was hiding exhaustion or tears.

“Wilbur is dead.”

“Wilbur is dead,” Phil confirmed. That hurt like a poisoned arrow to the chest. Somehow, against all logic and surface feelings of betrayal, Techno hoped that his traitor of a brother was still alive. If only just to kill him with his own sword for causing so much damage. The confirmation was a relief for the part of his brain that insisted on numbers and logic, and all things that made sense and brought him comfort- but it also pierced straight to the soft fleshy bits that still remembered sunny summers at Phil's lands back when everything was fun and games.

“You killed him.”

Phil drew a shaky breath, probably on the verge of tears but answered nonetheless. “Yes, I did… He wasn't well. I regret doing it.”

Well yes, Wilbur hadn't been "well" for a long time, Techno just pretended he didn't notice. A fatal flaw, if he's ever committed any, a part of him that liked to criticize every past mistake provided. Some of the voices wailed, inexplicably attached to his brother.

“I killed Tubbo.” 

~~Was that regret?~~

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

“And now Tommy’s…”

“Alone.” Alone, betrayed, exiled, isolated. A thousand and one synonyms raced through Techno's head. He wondered if it wasn't too late to do something, but knowing himself it probably was.

“I have no idea where he is.”

“He wouldn’t have you anyway,” Phil commented. Like anything else he ever said, it made sense.

"He wouldn't." He’s made his peace with that, unlike the voices. They screamed at Techno, demanding, hurting. They wanted revenge and closure, unsatisfied with his early retirement and aware of other affairs across the world that rankled them deeply. Their voices beat steadily, like heavy drums. 

Techno lost himself to the rhythm.

* * *

He rubbed at his eyes with the palms he had pressed to his face. He was too tired for this, he spent two days just watching the eggs- he wanted to sleep.

What a bummer.

-Oh

A little turtle had hatched. 

* * *

Later that day he took a pair of scissors and cut off the pink strands of hair as short as he dared. Most locks fell on the floor around him, like pink snow, but the majority got stuck on his white button-up.

He stared at himself through the cracked mirror he salvaged from the attic, there was enough of the reflective surface to see his tired face and a bit of his disheveled head.

He put the scissors down.

"Why did I do that?" He exhaled harshly, avoiding Wilbur's reddish eyes that stared at him from Wilbur's reflected face. Pale and gaunt, probably how he looked in his last moments. "Why did I do that, chat? This didn't help at all!"

Techno pulled away from the mirror, pinching the skin of his elbow harshly- a nervous habit he thought he had left in his youth- yet still there to give him away when he least expected.

The voices tittered. His new haircut was amusing to them.


	2. Interlude 1: In which Tubbo is totally fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I make Tubbo suffer because I love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING:  
> This chapter contains mentions and explicit descriptions of:  
> -Severe (burn) injuries  
> -Dead bodies
> 
> Read at your own risk. 
> 
> Anyways more world-building for you, next chapter we'll get more of Techno and someone I think you'll be surprised to hear from. Also, I think I should warn you that there are a few alterations to the timeline, as well as some events that happened differently. Nothing too major, but it's always the little things that make the biggest differences.

Tubbo's ears were ringing. He felt like he was floating, the pain from Technoblade's fireworks nothing but a distant blip amongst the dust and deep confusion. There was something wrong with his eyesight. Tommy… where was Tommy? He needed Tommy. Where was he? 

"Tubbo- Tubbo!" Tommy sounded like he was panicking, shaking him gently by the shoulders and trying to lift him in his arms. It was a terrible idea, but despite the nausea which the sudden movements caused, Tubbo was grateful for his presence. "I need a healer! Tubbo's- No, I need a healer immediately woman!

Tubbo's vision unfocused, Tommy's face was but a blur against a white background. What happened to the festival? 

"I don't care that I'm exiled! Give him the healing potion- he's dying!" 

Something cool pressed against his lips, and a warm hand lifted his head from the ground. The smell of melon invaded his nostrils, scorching the thin hairs within. The cleric in him tutted disapprovingly, this was brewed by someone who had no idea how to make potions. There was no way that Wilbur would have ever let something of this quality leave the van, let alone be consumed.

"Tubbo, Tubbo- I need you to drink this. Drink this, please."

"No…!" He mumbled, struggling against Tommy's hold. He gasped. The shock was fading- as did the numbness over his entire body. His skin felt like it was burning, peeling off the bones- sizzling. Like an allergic reaction towards everything it touched. He howled, knocking the concoction under his nose away.

His vision faded to black.

* * *

There was a limit to Respawn's regenerative properties. Things like limbs returned- if one died soon after the injury, but the mechanic didn't bother with superficial things like skin or even eyesight. _As long as you were whole_ , the saying went, _you were good to go_. 

Tubbo died to fire twice. The first time he got away with faint scars and a cloudy eye. The second time, he didn't get out of the makeshift healing tents in L'manburg's craters for a week. He barely kept the eye (now permanently blind), but the scars along his entire body would never heal, nor stop hurting at the faintest touch.

* * *

Brown ringlets on dewy grass, soft hands under torchlight. Endless sky above them and a steady finger pointing at each star. Tubbo under one arm, Tommy under another, Fundy's head pillowed on his father's soft stomach. Dozing and murmuring, Tommy's high-pitched laughs muffled by the wind, Wilbur’s musical tones wafting around them like smoke.

The memory faded as Tubbo swam out from the murkiness of his thoughts towards the bright surface.

Perhaps it was too late, but he realized how much the older man had done for them. He practically raised them on his own (as his own children). Tubbo remembered learning how to read in Wilbur’s lap, the words swirling around the page like spirals of ink. He remembered the feel of a wooden sword in his small hands as his brother showed him new stances, hesitant to give him a weapon at such a young age, but nonetheless unwilling to let him get hurt during the night. He remembered long stormy nights where he would pad over to the older man’s room, and being welcomed with a lifted blanket and soft words of reassurance in his hair. He remembered that man- the one who sang them to sleep- more than the one who screamed about his unfinished symphony, blind to everything else.

It was like losing a father- Tubbo didn't know what was wrong with him and his choices in father-figures, but they always seemed to die on him.

Phil was the exception of course, or at least the photo albums said so. Truthfully Tubbo had a hard time believing that the man had been a part of his life at some point, but the house was there, the land and the money too. Those couldn't have appeared out of thin air, and while he knew that Wilbur was a good musician, he also knew that his brother wasn't famous enough to provide them with everything they needed on his own.

Tubbo would have liked to see Phil again, but the man's timing was nothing except for unfortunate- or perhaps fortunate depending on the alliances, he guessed. It was mostly curiosity on Tubbo’s part. He wanted to speak with his adoptive father, he wanted to ask him where he’d been- why did he do what he did.

...

Why did he kill Wilbur?

He didn’t think that he wanted to hear the answer to that question, but he supposed that it would be better than spending his nights thinking about it. Or his days, like he was doing right now.

Tubbo stood still in the shadows, posture stiff like a soldier at attention. A steady headache pounded against his skull, and his muscles ached in protest from having been tensed for too long. The air smelled of rot and dried blood, so cloying that he wanted to throw up.

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t even know if he was allowed to be present at all.

Fundy certainly didn’t seem to mind, but he didn’t mind a lot of things these days. Maybe he should let him take a vacation. Would he even accept? Most likely not. Tubbo stared at the older man from the corner of his eyes. It looked like a second corpse had slumped on the table beside Wilbur’s, his eyes frighteningly blank- searching for something far, far away. Tubbo turned away, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling that crawled up his spine.

(He felt like an intruder.)

Tubbo wondered if they were too young to retire. He certainly didn’t feel young, maybe it was the body that had to give out first before the mind. Wilbur certainly lasted long enough for that- even dead bodies shouldn’t look so emaciated. The former president resembled one of those little china dolls he saw in the market last Saturday. Pale, and fragile, the spine made of steel Tubbo used to admire having turned into dust after so many blows. He couldn’t bear to look at that skeletal face for too long- it made his heart ache. Not that the rest of the man he used to know looked any better. 

Rigor mortis had long since settled in, twisting the frail muscles into a vulnerable pose that was barely accommodated by a few pillows. The former president looked skeletal, bones sharply protruding from paper-thin skin. Someone, probably Phil himself, had closed the unseeing eyes and the gaping mouth, but that didn’t make him look any less uncanny. 

If Tubbo were to choose the worst part, it would have been the hands. The chest was bloody and gory under the makeshift bandage someone had wrapped around it, but it didn’t compare to the damage on Wilbur’s palms. He’d fought against Phil's diamond sword with all his might, shredding the thin skin over his tendons with the determination of a man who didn’t want to die. Tubbo had gagged when he saw white bone shining through the bloodied skin. Seeing the hands who’ve created so much music and other beautiful things torn to ribbons made him think that perhaps the world wasn’t made for people like Wilbur.

Fundy let out a sudden sob, chest constricting into making harsh, hiccuping sounds that sounded too painful to be normal. The man was gasping for air and choking in his own tears, and Tubbo didn’t know whether he should be concerned or not. Fundy was grieving obviously, but the noises he was making… It didn’t help that his face was buried in Wilbur’s torn shit- just as he used to do when they were children. He supposed that his cousin was doing the healthy thing, he'd heard that the release of pent- up emotions was good in the long-term.

He almost reached for that shaking shoulder, but a well-timed chafing of his scars against the fabric of his suit reminded him that Fundy was actually mad at him because of what he did.

He wondered if he should be doing the same from time to time. Crying, that is. He had  _ a lot _ of reasons after all. Maybe there was something wrong with him because he hadn't shredded a single tear since before-

(Tommy looked at him with utter betrayal.

“I want you out of this country. By dawn.”

~~Please don't go, please, I’ll miss you-~~ )

Someone knocked on the door. Probably the shady mortician he’d hired to prepare Wilbur’s body. Tubbo opened the door silently.

* * *

He didn’t attend the funeral. He wasn't sure if anyone did, really. Fundy hadn't spoken a word about his father and Tubbo didn’t really dare to ask anything. Wilbur was buried in an unmarked grave on an unknown date, hidden among many of his unidentifiable victims in the first Cemetery of L’Manburg where all four of them had planned to be buried together someday. He was sure that Niki knew where he was, and so did Fundy so Tubbo didn't feel too bad about keeping it a secret.

At least that way Wilbur would be protected.

* * *

Tubbo tossed away the wad of paper angrily, uncaring of where it landed on the floor. His quill followed soon after, splattering ink over the wooden planks and part of the wall. The president didn't care about the mess. He didn’t care about the mounting pile of paperwork that waited for him, and he didn’t care that it was three in the morning and that he hadn’t gone to sleep in twenty hours.

Tubbo only cared about getting the task at hand done before winter came and half of the country starved to death because he couldn’t ask for some life-saving supplies like a civilized being. Nights were becoming longer, and soon they wouldn’t get any sunlight at all. He had to send the messenger parrots when they could see where they’re going. He had to. L’Manburg was too weak to survive the winter otherwise.

He rubbed at his aching temples, wincing at the inexplicable pain at the side of his head. Maybe it was the exhaustion, but the letter he was writing wasn't coming out as coherent as he would like. Normally he followed a structure- neat little guides Wilbur had made for him so many years ago when all they did was send the occasional hate mail cum declaration of war to Dream and his posse- but every time he wrote that particular letter his writing dissolved into unstructured rambles and offhand remarks that resembled small talk more than anything coherent.

In other words- terrible. 

The thing was, that Dream had offered his assistance plainly, but they had to ask for it. Let’s say that years of rebellion hadn’t made

Tubbo good at groveling. Especially to Eret. Every time he wrote the king’s name he had to take a break from writing, afraid that he would scribble something he'd regret. He debated on letting Quackity do it instead, but the idea immediately fell short. The Vice President would probably forget to do it. After Schlatt’s death, Quackity had mentally booked out, so to speak. He barely did anything around the office, busy with some private project or other.

If it weren’t for the prohibition of alcohol to all members of the administration, Tubbo would think that Quackity was getting drunk in his house all day. He couldn’t really blame him if he did it despite the law. 

Of course, the less he thought about Fundy the better. Tubbo hasn’t seen hide nor hair from him since Wilbur’s funeral, and honestly, he was relieved. The whole situation was too much for him to handle, and he was sure that he would say the wrong thing.

The armrests of his chair creaked ominously under his painful grip, but Tubbo only focused on the sensation of polished wood under his fingers. He let the anger in his system lash out against the poor piece of furniture, hoping that it would break under him. At least that way he could make a change- in some way. 

Unfortunately, he knew that he was hurting himself more than he would ever hurt the wood. In the end, he let his harsh grip relax, rolling his shoulders against the tenseness in his back. He didn’t even have the strength to break a single chair, how was he supposed to rule a country? He pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off the killer headache he had, but the action was futile. Tubbo frowned, pressing his palms to his eyes. It didn't matter in the end though, the desperate action didn’t prevent the sting of frustrated tears behind his eyelids.

He let his head rest against the cool surface of his desk, grateful for the minimal relief it brought to the burned side of his forehead. Maybe he should take a nap- only a couple of hours, nothing too long unless he became used to it. Yeah. Sleep was good.

He was so tired that he didn't even notice the floating piece of paper unfold almost gently from the angry ball he'd thrown earlier.

* * *

What a fucking mess. What an absolute, shit-stained mess. Schlatt was furious- that fucking kid didn’t know when to quit, did he? Not even an explosion half the size L’Manburg drove the concept of giving up in that thick head.

(Violence is the worst teacher, what did you think was going to happen when you old fucks destroyed the kid's only home?)

Some goddamn peace and tranquility at the very least! 

Now he had a conscience and shit. Looking around the office didn't make him feel better about it either. He looked around the place judgmentally, noting how it was empty safe for the bare necessities. There wasn't even a bathroom to take a piss in- was Tubbo raised in the woods?

He thought Wilbur at least knocked some sense into him back when he was a functional human being. Maybe the dumbassery was inherited and the country was doomed from the start? Schlatt thought that Tubbo had some common sense, at least compared to the rest of his family, but he guessed he was wrong. No chairs for visitors, no sofas to crash in during the night, not even a place to store food. It looked more like a torture chamber than a place to rule a country from. Bare walls, no filing cabinets in sight-! Schlatt scoffed in disgust. He built an entire skyscraper just to have some good offices around, and Tubbo chose the only janitor closet.

(In Tubbo's defense he didn't know what was a janitor closet, the concept of someone else cleaning after him was too modern to comprehend and he chose the most humble option. Quackity hadn't disagreed, in fact, he gleefully took the one indented for Tubbo, only to abruptly stop using it after the Festival.)

Schlatt looked down at the floor, knowing that there was a reason why he had wandered in here. There, thrown on the ground in a fit of frustration like a discarded toy, was what attracted his attention to this place.

He picked up the ball of paper gingerly, unsure of what he was going to find inside. He inspected the short paragraphs, tsking at the mess of ink and spelling errors. That wouldn't do. Not at all.

He threw the useless paper in the already overflowing bin and picked up the abandoned quill off the floor. He twirled the white parrot feather between his fingers in consideration. He's always hated those things, there was nothing wrong with a good fountain pen, but those barbarians were too stupid to know what was progress even if it hit them in the face.

His attention slid towards the disorganized desk, ghostly fingers shifting strewn papers around. Too many for a single person to manage on his own, for sure. Flatty Patty was useless as always, it seemed. The desk was about to break in half from so much weight on it, for fuck’s sake.

Half of these were the Vice President’s responsibility, but Tubbo was too much of a pushover to put his foot down and make him do his share. Schlatt had tried to harden that soft heart of his at one point- obviously, it didn't work, but seeing him like this made him wish he had tried harder with less drunken shenanigans.

Schlatt watched the mop of brown hair shift, the pale face underneath pillowed by a pair of twiggy arms. The scars looked even more disgusting up close- jeez, they really did a number on this kid. He even looked thinner, upon closer inspection.

At that moment Tubbo chose to make a noise in his sleep- a faint whimper while reliving some injury or other. He was having a nightmare, Schlatt realized with a pang of regret in his bloated and overtaxed heart. Probably about him- maybe even about Wilbur and that pig brother of his.

His fingers hovered over the suit jacket haphazardly thrown on the chair. He paused to consider what he was about to do. A peaceful afterlife was still very much of an option, all he had to do was leave the office behind and disappear into the woods. No one would even know he was here- there was no risk of attachment to that hell-hole of a country. All he had to do-

Tubbo’s entire body jolted, joints hitting the desk. The kid's muscles reacted on instinct to avoid whatever blow his brain had imagined. He remained in that uncomfortable pose for a few seconds, gasping unevenly as if he had just run a marathon.

Schlatt cursed under his breath. Fuck him, and his old age. 

He rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and set out to work, a president needed someone to proofread all the letters. Even at the height of success, Quackity was a useless slacker, and if Schlatt wanted to get something done he always had to do it himself.

(And if Tubbo were to wake up warm and well-rested, with a jacket draped over his shoulders- well, that was a mystery he’ll have to deal with on his own.)

  
  
  
  



	3. In which Techno announces that he will kill Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this chapter took me places, hope you guys enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I confess, when I posted the first chapter I was meming- I wasn't taking this seriously at all. I didn't expect this to grow this big and now I'm in six chapters too deep. Because of that, dear readers, please don't be confused if you see that the summary or chapter titles have changed. I might also change a few minor details in my previous chapters AND add more tags.
> 
> Also, according to the Chrome extension for Ao3 I have on my browser, only 15% of my readers leave kudos- ok no (but seriously leave kudos if you like this fic). I also encourage you to leave a comment! Anything from in-depth analysis to a simple 'cool :)' gives me life.

Technblade regained consciousness to the poignant pain of his stomach trying to consume itself from hunger. He placed a hand on his stomach, wincing at the pangs of emptiness that made him want to curl up in a ball. He opened his eyes slowly, swimming out of the dazed state he had been in for the past week or so. The world around him was pitch-black, and beyond the certainty that he was in his room, Techno couldn't orient himself. He examined his surroundings carefully, taking note of the rising moon outside his window. He’s been out of it for an entire week if he remembered his moon phases correctly.

He didn’t remember much of the last seven days. He barely ate, that was for sure, and he was sure that Phil forced him to drink water and use a chamber pot once or twice. Other than that… he scrunched his nose in thought- hr didn’t remember anything else. He remembered cutting his hair at some point and the greasy locks he could feel against his nape certainly confirmed that, but the rest of the time was pretty much blank.

He cried a lot, he confessed in the confines of his surprisingly quiet mind. No one answered. Techno frowned in confusion. He sat up gingerly, noting how the mattress sunk under him and the floorboards under his feet creaked ominously. He basked in the sensation of solidness around him- in the quiet hush in his mind. He took a deep breath, listening to the demanding gurgles of his stomach. He could hear Phil’s banging downstairs- he was safe and protected. Nothing could hurt him.

Then the voices chose to roar to life.

They weren’t gone ~~of course they weren’t- they will~~ ~~**never** ~~ ~~leave~~ , just muffled against the background of Techno’s general misery. His brain practically got scrambled with a flip of a switch. The inside of his mind turned into an overwhelming mess of shouts and shrill screams demanding blood, vengeance, and amusingly enough through the haze of unimaginable agony- a good bath.

He tumbled down on the floor, the entire house shaking with the thud of his heavy body against the shoddily hammered planks. He curled into a tight ball, clutching at his short strands of hair as tight as he could in the hopes of alleviating the pain of hearing thoughts that weren’t his own. In a desperate bid to muffle his screams, Techno bit the soft flesh of his arm strong enough to break the skin. 

The millions of voices didn’t stop- not for a second.

Some wanted to track Dream right then and there and rip that blond-haired head out of his miserable body, while others planned to blow L’manburg to bedrock after taking Wilbur’s body back with them to bury him where he belonged. Another smaller group, but not less fervent and vocal for it, burst with foreign concern for Tommy like a rotten fruit in the heat- the sour smell invading his nostrils like a strong perfume. Techno tried to ignore them to no avail. They fought, they debated, they had screaming matches over who was right and who was morally correct. Some didn't even bother to talk. They simply sniveled and wailed- whispering desperate pleas and fear-driven bargains for ‘everything to be okay’.

Techno grunted, voice hoarse and face firmly pressed against the cold floor. His entire frame shook with foreign glee. There was another group of voices, louder than all the others combined, _enjoying_ the pain they’re causing. It was _entertaining_. An acquired taste- like strong alcohol. Techno choked on his saliva, never one for masochism. Unsurprisingly, the sudden movement caused his starving stomach to give out- rendering Technoblade a sobbing mess laying in a puddle of his own bile, heaving what little contents he had in his stomach.

He’s never felt more miserable in his life. 

The soft click-clacks of a pair of geta against wood announced the presence of the last person in the world he wanted to see him like that. He could recognize that comforting sound everywhere despite the dread he felt at being seen in this state.

“Oh, mate.” 

Gentle, Phil was gentle. Techno was safe, it was okay. Calloused hands brushed against his forehead, uncaring of the sweat gathered on his skin. "You're burning up. Jesus, you've done a number on yourself. Come on. Let’s get you out of the man-cave."

Techno let himself get lifted in the air without a protest- no laws of physics applied to Philza Minecraft. The smaller man lifted his shaking body off the ground as if his three-hundred pounds of muscle and insulating fat didn’t weigh a single thing. At this point Techno could only let himself get carried off, cool winter air raising goosebumps on his exposed flesh. He sighed at the sensation, though he was sure it sounded more like a hitch in his breath. At least the voices were beginning to sort themselves out.

“Phil.” He croaked. “Phil, I have to tell you something, please. I have to do something.”

Brief silence. Techno clutched his eyes closed against the warm light of the lanterns above him. 

“What, do you want to do mate? I'll help you, just let me take care of you first, you look like you're about to kick the bucket." Techno twitched, disgusted at the feel of his general state. Starving, filthy, and more than a little disheveled, he looked more like a street rat than a former emperor. Instead of voicing any of his worries, however, he merely tried to breathe through the corroding sensation of his stomach acid eating away his esophagus.

“Phil, remember when I said that I was retiring?” He almost sobbed, feeble hand clutching Phil’s soft yukata. “That was a lie, Phil. I can’t.” He wanted to bury his face in Phil’s chest like he did as a child, but even the faintest shift made the voices explode in more demands. It was overwhelming. He thought he was going to pass out, but he forced himself to continue, barely aware of the words he was saying.

“I can’t retire. I’m sorry, I have to go back to L’manburg.”

He was placed in something warm- water- warm water. Clothes and all. Phil had expected him to wake up sooner or later and had prepared a bath for him. It helped up to a certain point. The warmth of the bath helped Technoblade focus, despite the urge to bolt away.

“Shh.” Phil’s fingers carded through his choppily cut hair. Techno tried to breathe through the nose, swallowing down his abused throat. “It’s okay that you lied, I forgive you. You can retire whenever you want to. I don't care, I just want you to feel better.”

“I can’t retire Phil. I have to kill them- No, I have to take care of someone, I-!”

“Shh, shh. You're alright mate. It's fine. We can talk about this later. Let's get you cleaned up now."

"Phil I'm confused…"

"Well, I'm Phil- I’m, I’m your dad. You're Techno, my son, and we're both in your house. The one in the Dream SMP." He clarified. "It's been seven days since you closed yourself in your room- the only one with a bed by the way, not cool. Anyway- you’re safe, it’s just you and me here."

"And- and Wilbur?" Techno blinked, still feeling the residual aches of overly-tensed muscles and acid down his throat.

Phil paused in his attempt to take off Techno's dress shirt for him. The fireplace behind them flickered in tandem with a phantom breeze in the room. The older man cleared his throat behind a clenched fist. There was something vulnerable in his eyes Techno hadn't seen in a long time. Phil petted his hair again, letting his palm rest on the back of his wet neck.

"... they buried him yesterday, my sweet. In an undisclosed location. I checked the respawn, there was no sign of him reappearing”

"In L’manburg?"

"Yes, in L’manburg."

"That doesn't feel right." He whispered.

Phil looked away.

"...It wasn't our decision to make." 

Techno chose to ignore that last comment, tilting his head from side to side. The piglin hybrid noted with relief that the voices had quieted, the whispers so faint that he couldn't distinguish what they were saying. He lifted his hand from its limp position on the lip of the bathtub, dipping each finger in the lukewarm water. He watched entranced as the surface rippled with every digit.

For the first time in a week, he felt in control of both his body and mind.

"I- the voices say that I should kill Dream.”

Phil's careful attempts to take off Techno's pants ceased. The hybrid shifted away, intending to undress by himself so he could at least preserve the last few dregs of dignity he had.

"Why would you kill Dream?" Phil’s question was carefully worded. He disapproved. 

"Because he-" Techno sputtered, temper rearing up defensively before he forced himself to pause and think about it. Why did he want to kill Dream? The administrator had been nothing except neutral towards him, right?

_'Tyrant.'_

_'The Green Tyrant God.'_

_'He hurt Tommy.'_

_‘Technosad :(‘_

_'#Killdream2020'_

_'E'_

_'Goat man'_

_'1 in a 7.5 trillion chance he figures it out'_

_'BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD'_

_'The book'_

_'Green teletubby.'_

_'Can we go back to the turtle farm? I’m sad.'_

_'The game'_

"I don't know… something about Tommy." Techno scrunched his nose, since when did he care about Tommy?

"Well. I think we should refrain from killing the only being who keeps this server functional until you explain in detail. All right? I will help you with whatever you want, but I need you to be coherent first."

"I have to check on Tommy."

"Do you?" Techno sent an unimpressed glare at the other man. Phil liked to do this thing where asked really pointed questions with answers that were intentionally difficult to answer. It was a tactic when he used back during their teenage phases when Techno got too stubborn and Wilbur acted out. The inquiries might’ve sounded pointlessly difficult for anyone else, but the hybrid knew that his father wanted him to reach a certain conclusion on his own. He answered truthfully.

"It's my duty."

"Your duty? One would think that caring for your brothers should be more than a duty."

"But I don't _care_ about Tommy- I don't know Tommy, he’s my brother in name only. The last time I saw him before this whole mess of a server was when he was two and you dumped him, and that box foundling in Wilbur's lap." Phil flinched at that, but Techno couldn't really understand why. He would have done the same in the hypothetical situation that he was suddenly saddled with a pair of toddlers, why should he give up his freedom for a bunch of orphans anyway? He shrugged, rubbing his scalp with the bar of soap Phil had provided. He didn't feel like talking about it anymore.

"I _marginally_ think about Tommy simply because I used to care about Wilbur some thirty years ago and I guess that I owe him a favor."

"You owe him a favor?" Understanding sparked behind Phil's eyes, lighting up into a true firestorm of determination to peel Techno open and uncover his deepest secrets. The older man offered him a small towel to scrub himself with. He accepted the rough piece of cloth with a quiet ‘Thank You’. "You know, I've been wondering why you took Wilbur’s death so hard- ever since you invited me, really. I was worrying day and night, just staring at the ceiling. You’ve seen all of us die at some point, you’ve seen us killing each other, _you’_ ve killed us countless times. So why?”

Techno bristled at the rhetoric question. He didn’t take anything hard. He didn’t care about people, and he didn’t mourn their supposed deaths. He’s just… angry that Wilbur let himself get killed. That’s right. It was the shock. Wilbur was his twin; he's allowed to show interest in his literal genetic copy. It was stupid to care about someone who could come back at any second.

(But Wilbur hasn’t come back, has he?)

"Technoblade, this is the first time you've seen someone you cared about die and not come back isn’t it?"

_‘Right on the nail’_

_‘Dadza! Dadza!’_

Techno's ferocious scrubbing paused. This was another matter of experience, wasn’t it? Phil was the hardcore expert- the shining badge of his status as a champion was proof enough of that. Death was one of those things he was _inexperienced_ in despite being so proficient in causing it because he was _young,_ and actually really, really _small._ He wiped away at the tears that hadn’t even begun to form in his eyes. Then he berated himself for it. Creatures like him didn't cry- the sensation he felt was his human half simply trying to cope with a body unsuited for a Player’s brain. In the Nether, crying was a waste of water.

Phil, ever tuned in to his exact thoughts, huffed in amusement.

“Players can’t die Techno. We’re immortal since the day we’re born or spawn, and no Admin can change that. No matter how many hardcore worlds we make or permadeath tournaments we participate in. We. Cannot. Die.”

Something uncomfortable which Technoblade barely realized was a sob clogged his throat.

“We can only choose not to respawn.”

"Ah," he choked out. His eyes refused to meet Phil’s. His father nestled his chin in his palm, elbow resting on the edge of the metal tub he’d dumped him in. Techno pointedly averted his gaze and continued to rub the soap lather over his entire body. A small silence descended over them- barely disturbed by the crackling of burning wood and the distant howling of the wind. He could feel the older man’s patient gaze on his back, waiting.

"When I killed Wilbur, I expected him to come back.” The older man confessed in a low voice. “I realize that it was a stupid excuse, but I really, really did. He wanted to die so much and I just- gave in and stabbed him- I’m very, very sorry."

Techno's neck snapped in Phil’s direction so fast, he thought he was going to get whiplash. It didn't help that he sprayed soap water everywhere, including on Phil who absentmindedly brushed some of the droplets away together with a few stray tears that had rolled down his cheeks.

"I thought that if I killed him, he would have time to heal and calm down. Because wanting to die so badly wasn't healthy in any way, but his body remained and it didn't disappear like I thought it would. And he didn't respawn either so I thought that… well it doesn't matter what I thought. I panicked, I could hear everyone fighting, so I felt relieved when you messaged me. I wanted to leave as soon as possible.” The older man confessed. Shaking his head as if dismissing his train of thought. “The important thing is that he's still out there somewhere, either refusing to respawn or simply out of the SMP. In any case… I think you should try to talk to him. For your own sake.”

Phil squeezed his shoulder gently. The sensation provoked a new wave of giddy whispers at the back of his mind. Techno stared at the stone wall in front of him. Logically he knew that Wilbur wasn’t dead, but that day when he managed to escape by the skin of his teeth, right after the betrayal- he had- well. 

The death message had come as a surprise

_WilburSoot was slain by PhilzA_

He’d stared at it uncomprehendingly on his way to his old base, smoke still clinging to his clothes and a brand new nether star in his backpack. What an awkward greeting party, he had commented to Chat. He’d paused to message Phil in greeting, eager to meet the older man. Thank the Blood God, he planned ahead and built himself a second base. His father had agreed to meet him in a heartbeat, on the condition of staying with him as far away from L’manburg as possible. 

They met halfway to the new base, they made a turtle farm and they shared baked potatoes in the biting cold.

Techno had listened to the whole tale, mind barely registering what a real, actual body instead of a puff of smoke meant. It dawned on him almost a week later. Then he spent seven days wallowing in his own filth, trying to understand _how_ because this server wasn't hardcore-

Unless…

His ear twitched in the direction of the kitchen, where Phil was probably preparing dinner.

Unless it was Dream who disabled natural respawn (somehow, despite it being _impossible_ without alerting everyone).

_‘1 in 7.5 trillion chance lads’_

_‘Poggers’_

* * *

He was going to kill Dream.

For Wilbur.

* * *

Yes- he was- but then he remembered that all of his things were still in his old base and he and Phil were barely surviving on the basic supplies he stockpiled in all of his hideouts. He made a mental list of the materials he had in hand. His weapons, his armor, potatoes, coal, wood, clothes, basic hygiene stuff.

Yeah.. he needed to take his valuables back.

So two days after his… episode, Techno was functional enough to brave the outside world, skull mask firmly placed on his face and fur coat tightly clasped above his armor- all he was missing was his crown but he knew he had it safely tucked away in his enderchest.

Well. For starters, it was fucking cold.

_‘Techno swooooore!’_

He pretended to ignore Chat to the best of his ability, while also listening to the small tidbits of information they gave away with their incessant chatter. He wished he had a horse so he could get on with this quicker.

_‘Ah, it’s cold outside!’_

_‘@??? We’re in a tundra? Of course it's cold?.’_

_‘I heard there was a village nearby, someone finally dug up the Seed from Dream’s files’_

_‘Coords?’_

_‘Haha imagine if Wilbur really fucked off to another server’_

_‘E’_

_‘Techno go north, to the village!’_

_‘Techno, Dream is taking Tommy’s stuff!’_

_‘BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!’_

Enough. The piglin hybrid shook his head harshly, rattling the Chat into a manageable murmur in his ear. The coat he was wearing was thin enough to let him feel the cold, but the heavy fur lining protected him from the worst effects of the elements. He put his foot down, enjoying the sound of snow crunching under his boots. He took a step, then another, feeling happy at the sensation of fresh air in his lungs.

_‘Awww guys, he’s happy!’_

_‘POG!’_

He looked around, trying to judge the distance from his house to Pogtopia where he knew there was an enderchest he could use ~~steal~~. Not too far if he crossed the ocean, but in the opposite direction of the supposed village. He let the Chat decide.

_‘The North.’_

_‘Guys go watch Eret’s stream’_

_‘Wait what?’_

_‘No, leave him aloooone!’_

_‘POG’_

_‘Techno go get your stuff!’_

_'Don't snitch! He'll find out on his own. It'll be funnier!’_

The Chat's barely acceptable murmur raised to a dull roar as every single voice declared their wish to get back his stuff. 

Fine.

Fine!

Technoblade grumbled. To the base it was, then. He turned on his heel, wrapped the coat tighter around himself, and began walking. He preferred boats over having to walk on foot anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of avoiding any confusion I'll put the official ages of the characters below:
> 
> -Techno/Wilbur/Schlatt/George: 50 give or take  
> -Tommy: 22 (this world's equivalent of 16, aka underage)  
> -Tubbo/Ranboo: 23 (still underage)  
> -Fundy: 33 (not underage)  
> -Phil: ????  
> -Dream: ???  
> -BBH: 100 years older than Dream  
> -Everyone else over the age of 18: in their 30s and 40s (again an approximate equivalent)
> 
> None of them age beyond their 30s physically (irl 20s) and they're all immortal (supposedly). Oh and they also age slower mentally, thus the higher age limit enforced by the official laws of the Hypixel servers. Some (Schlatt) like to ignore it and are consequently banned together with their affiliates, if found out.
> 
> 6 years have passed since the founding of L'manburg, when Tommy was 16 (very young in irl ages). The war for independence took 2 years, the elections six months, Schlatt's term 3 years and a half.


	4. Interlude 2: In which Tubbo is totally not fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually think I'm going to go with a pattern of Main story-Interlude-Main story and tie both plots together in the future. Hope it's not too annoying...
> 
> Oof. I've added new tags, take care when reading my story!

_ Mr. President Tubbo of the Independent Republic of L’manburg, _

_ My deepest condolences for the current state of your country, and the damage done to your person. I write this letter to express the Greater Dream SMP’s willingness to offer assistance in the matter of supplies, as well as workforce for the reparations of your country in the hopes of continuing our mutually beneficial alliance.  _

_ Maintaining the country’s stability must be our first priority. _

_ Furthermore, I wish to inform the ruling cabinet of the country that our monarch, King Eret, first of his name has disappeared. Unfortunately, our investigations seem to be inconclusive, and we can’t determine the cause of it. Given my personal involvement with the investigation, I can conclude that there are no signs of foul play. Our former liege has abandoned his crown and all pertaining titles in a formal letter that I cannot make public.  _

_ Nevertheless, the line of succession must be maintained. As such, King George the First will be crowned as the next ruler in the following month. His legitimacy has been acknowledged by yours truly, as well as the one of his successor, Prince Sapnap, in case of his untimely death. _

_ I hope your health improves soon, Mr. President. _

_ Long live King George, _

_ Administrator Dream _

Tubbo folded the letter carefully, frowning as he processed the information. Those were terrible news for L’manburg. Dream obviously didn’t care about Eret’s disappearance and was more than happy to sweep the entire fiasco under the rug- which meant that George had an even softer spine than the traitor.

Even worse, he was capable of making things much more difficult for them if he wished. Tubbo hated uncertainty- relying on predictions has never done him much good. George was a wild card, from his experience, the older man was nothing but a violent follower. Who knew what atrocities he was capable of committing if someone gave him enough power. For all he knew, they were setting themselves up for a second Schlatt and that wouldn’t bode well with L’manburg at all. Especially at this moment. 

He looked out from his window, instinctively curling his lip at some of the skyscrapers that managed to survive after the Festival  _ and  _ the explosion. Ugly little town, that they’ve created. Schlatt really decided to plant a metropolis in the middle of a small village and expected it to look good. Tubbo rubbed his temples, irritated at the building headache. He couldn’t take a break, could he?

The president twirled around on his chair, still marveling that it could do that, and gave one perfunctory sweep of his desk. He needed to tidy it up, put some things away- maybe even organize the drawers as a treat. 

(He needed to finish Quackity’s paperwork first though)

He shuffled some papers that poked through the little crack he’d opened earlier unenthusiastically. Nothing too important, just general rubbish, an old notebook with all the pages torn off, Dream’s alliance treaty with L’manburg-

Tubbo did a double-take, picking up the unassuming piece of paper, noting the official seal that confirmed the letter’s legitimacy. He unfolded the letter still clutched in his hand and compared the two. 

See, Dream rarely wrote to L’Manburg directly- it gave the impression that he had more control than he should (and he did), so he disliked doing it on principle. More often than not, it was Eret’s master of Laws who penned any letters that expressed His Grace’s (Dream’s) wishes. Occasionally they even got something from George himself if it was something more personal- read, when Dream didn’t want Eret to know what he was planning at that time- if that. It was a rarity to see Dream’s handwriting, a collector’s treat.

This was why Tubbo kept the rare scrap of written word he could get from Dream- simply out of curiosity. He wrote differently than anyone else, always using the @ in front of everyone’s tag names as if writing through a chat. It was amusing to read. He was like an alien that tried to communicate with them, ordinary humans. Tubbo found it amusing even on his worst days.

This was why this particular one sounded so off. The personality Dream exuded through his writing was gone, leaving only the cold criticality of a political exchange. The differences were subtle, Tubbo wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t have the real deal right in front of his eyes. Some things didn’t match- certainly crossed t’s and dotted i’s were too  _ perfect _ . Copied from a sample with no account taken for human errors and natural imperfection. The President frowned, that didn’t make sense. George’s personal stamp was there- which meant he had to read the letter at least once. Wouldn’t he have noticed something?

The headache returned with vengeance, sending a pang of pain that made Tubbo yelp and close his eyes. At this point it was obvious that there was something wrong with him, this many migraines in a week weren’t healthy. Gods, he couldn’t concentrate on a single thought, this one was worse than any other he’s had in the last week. 

The president pressed his forehead to his desk, blindly rifling through his disorganized drawers for a painkiller. No luck this time, he would have to tough it out.

He felt the tell-tale prick of tears in the corners of his eyes. It didn’t matter- he’s figured it out one way or another. Someone was actively impersonating the Admin of the server well enough to fool everyone, including his most trusted men.

  
  


* * *

Schlatt stared at the two pieces of parchment in the kid’s hands with a mounting sense of dread.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.  _ Again!? _ ”

* * *

Sometimes Schlatt was glad that these peasants hadn’t invented the printing press. His life would have been much harder if that parasite hadn’t written a letter to the only person on the server who had to pay twice as much attention when reading. 

He glared through the paper hoping it set on fire from the sheer power of his will. Unfortunately, it didn't do anything much besides raising his blood pressure to levels he didn't think he could reach as a ghost. On his left Tubbo continued to clutch his head in pain, emitting the occasional whimper.

The former president sent a look in the kid's direction from the corner of his eyes, maybe it was time for more drastic measures. He grabbed a quill (always with the fucking quills!) and practically waved a piece of paper in front of Tubbo. The teen sluggishly raised his head at the sound, watching with fascination and small amounts of fear as the words 'GO TO SLEEP' scrawled themselves on the white surface.

Schlatt huffed in irritation and let the scrap of paper fall on the desk, watching as the kid gently picked it up with shaking hands. He watched hope grow behind his only working eye as it skimmed the short phrase over and over with a small smile.

"Go to sleep…" He murmured to himself. Schlatt let himself float to the other side of the desk. "Wilbur is that you? Are you here?"

Now  _ that _ made Schlatt stop right on his tracks. 

" _ Wilbur?! _ Why the fuck is Wilbur your first guess?" He shouted in annoyance.  _ Why  _ in the fuck would lover boy be here of all places? Wasn\t he the one responsible for the giant crater a few blocks away?

Tubbo froze. Schlatt watched in bewilderment as the slip of a teen paled to an alarming shade of gray. The kid practically scrambled out of his chair, shaky hands wrapping around the hidden diamond sword at his feet. Schlatt huiffed, say what you will about Tubbo and unassuming appearances, but he saw what the kid could do with a good blade in his hand. He was no expert, but he recognized a veteran when he saw one.

"Where are you?" Tubbo's voice shook, but his double-handed grip on the handle remained steady as he backed himself away from his desk.

"Are you okay kid, did you finally lose it?" Schlatt laughed as he got closer to the tense teen. Despite the mocking tone, his hand reached out hesitantly towards the cowering president. The kid's breath hitched. Schlatt narrowed his eyes in suspicion. No… that didn't make any sense. Did it?

"Schlatt?" A pair of eyes, one milky white, another chocolate brown, stared right through him. The former president paused, Tubbo couldn’t see him, but his head was tilted in his direction. Could Tubbo hear him? How? He’s been trying for weeks.

"It's me, kid." He murmured hesitantly, teetering on the edge of curiosity, but held back by a healthy amount of weariness.

Tubbo took a shaky breath, diamond sword still held in a defensive position. Schlatt eyet the razor-sharp edge wearily.

"Schlatt, wh-what are you doing here? Is this a trick? Ghosts aren't real- Quackity this isn’t funny at all.”

"Hah! Ghosts aren’t real but you scrambled to greet  _ Wilby  _ at the first opportunity?" The ghost barked a laugh, ignoring Tubbo’s full-bodied wince at the harsh sound. "I guess I  _ am  _ haunting you for the time being. You’re more fun than I remembered-!"

He stumbled back on instinct as the enchanted blade of the sword swung in his direction, despite that he knew that it couldn’t possibly harm him. The aim was deadly accurate.

“No! Stay away!” Tubbo shouted to the empty air. “You died! You lost! Nobody wants you as president anymore- you can't possess me or whatever you're planning to do. Leave me alone!"

Okay, now he was getting annoyed. He slid his way closer to the scared teen with practiced ease, ignoring the faint sensation of pure diamond passing through his body. He clicked his tongue close to the kid's ear, watching as he jumped away from him only to hit the bare wall behind him.

"Listen kid, I'm here whether you want me or not. I suggest you get used to it, before it becomes a problem for you, get it?"

"Fuck you!" The teen spat, swinging his sword wildly around him. The maniacal glint in his seeing eye reminded Schlatt of a cornered animal. "Fuck you, you alcoholic bitch! I just got my country back, I'm not giving it back to you!"

"Oh yeah?" Schlat grit through his teeth, annoyed at the teen's defiance. "I wonder how long you'll get to keep your precious L’manburg when the creature posing as your god chooses to wipe it out."

Now, that made Tubbo falter. The former president watched as the teen let out a shaky breath, back still pressed against the white wall. Schlatt noted with grim satisfaction that the sword, while not completely put away, was lowered to the ground. Good, at least the kid wasn't at risk of chopping his limbs off. Tubbo squinted suspiciously at empty air.

“My ‘god’-? Do you mean Dream?” The ghost rolled his eyes, of course he meant Dream. "Do you know  _ anything  _ about that- about the letter?"

The ghost pressed forward.

"Oh, I know exactly what's going on. It means that you're fucked and I should be booking it as soon as possible, but-"

He let the word hang between them, amused at the way the kid practically perked up. Sometimes it was too easy. 

"-but. I can help you."

Tubbo's face immediately soured, the distrusting expression pulling the grotesque scars on his face in ways that looked painful even to Schlatt- and he forgot how pain felt after he died!

"In exchange for what, exactly?" Over-cautiousness, wariness, paranoia- skills he once valued in his subordinates.

"In exchange for your listening ear, of course. Being dead is kind of lonely, you know? Besides..." He twirled mid-air, enjoying Tubbo’s frustration as he struggled to keep track of him. “I bet you need a helping hand.”

"I don't believe that for a second, Schlatt. I'm not as stupid as you think I am. You want your power back don't you? Guess what, I’m not planning to do anything for you ever again.” 

Schlatt stopped to consider Tubbo's words. Did he want the power back? No. He wanted his company back, he wanted his money and his prestige back. He wanted to go back to the people who actually cared for him. None of those things were in this ghetto of a server, but Tubbo wouldn't believe that would he? Schlatt once again regretted joining the SMP. This place actually killed him in more ways than one. None of these people knew him as he actually was.

The ghost finally forced himself to look at his former protege. Perhaps the same was true for everybody else. They were all trapped in here were they? His gaze slid over Tubbo’s blind eye, feeling a pang of compassion. Perhaps some have been trapped even longer than he was. Anger burned a hole in his chest. He aimed it at the closest person around, ignoring the little voice of reason that told him he was being cruel for no reason. 

“No, you little idiot,” He spat. “For once in your life look beyond this dumpster of a server and see the big picture! I don’t  _ care  _ about L’manburg. I only had a passing interest that stuck for long enough to win the presidency- and I only did that because I knew it would piss off Wilbur and his brain-dead lackeys! I kicked the bucket! It’s done, and I can’t go back to the things I actually care about!”

Tubbo rolled his eyes, almost looking like a real, disobeying teen for once.

“Yeah- sure. That’s why you exiled Tommy and Wilbur.  _ That _ ’s why you held on to the presidency for three years and got L’manburg into yet another war. That’s why you did your best to destroy everything that tied Wilbur and the founders to the country.”

“Wh-  _ no! _ That wasn’t  _ me _ !” 

He didn’t mean to say that.

“Oh yeah and who was it? You abusive twin? A Dreamon? Speak up! Own up to your greed, you bastard!”

Schlatt’s mouth clamped shut, he forgot how ridiculous _ it _ sounded. He forgot exactly  _ why  _ he couldn’t tell anyone about _ it _ . It’s a trick. A challenge. How far could the illusion go- how accurately could  _ it _ imitate you before someone realized that the monstrosities you committed weren’t actually you? The fear, the paranoia, the doubts- they piled up. Like an abusive relationship- constantly keeping you at a steady level of stress that chipped away at your sanity and pushed you in deeper. Was it Schlatt who logged into the SMP at all? When did  _ he  _ stop being  _ him  _ and became  _ it _ ?

~~Was~~ ~~_ it _ still there? Is he Schlatt-? No. Yes? Maybe? He’ll never be able to tell again? ~~

~~ No- it’s fine. Schlatt is hiding, deep, deep down, under the liters and liters of alcohol. He won’t have to deal with the things he’s- _ it _ ’s done if he’s too drunk to function- ~~

~~**but you can’t get drunk anymore can you, goat boy?** ~~

“What, cat got your tongue?” Tubbo laughed- it sounded slightly hysterical. The shrill sound snapped Schlatt back into reality. “Oh-oh, don’t tell me, that’s your defense! That’s the only excuse you have for everything you’ve done to us! Honestly- burn in hell, you monster- I don’t want to see you for the rest of my life! I’m glad that you’re dead- in fact, I would pay good money to watch your diabolical heart burst again in front of me!”

The door to the office slammed open, making both of them jump. 

“Tubbo, man are you okay? I heard shouting from my office, is everything alright-?”

“Quackity! What the fuck are you doing here?”

Schlatt scurried away, ignoring the rest of the conversation. He felt shakier than usual- his hands couldn’t stop trembling, and the smell of toast burned his nostrils. Any control over his corporeality had vanished, making him stumble around, accidentally knocking over a glass of water over the desk.

“Wait- what the fuck! Did you see that shit, man?”

“Wha- No? Oh-  _ Oh no _ !”

Schlatt phased through the walls of the building, fleeing into the dark woods surrounding the city. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter now because my exams are coming up next week and there will be a short period of time where I won't be able to write anything. My first exam is actually a day after the Wednesday stream- I am in Spain without the S ;-;
> 
> Anyways, first world problems aside- please leave kudos, leave a comment, and I hope you enjoyed!


	5. In which Techno pretends that nothing's happened, while giving himself away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade finally goes to the famed village, trades low-quality emeralds in exchange for too many potatoes and almost kills a person. Part 1 of 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Eret is here! If you pay a lot of attention, dear readers, you might notice how I foreshadowed this character in earlier chapters but didn't end up adding him. Also, according to Ao3 statistics, only 9% of my readers left kudos on my work, so be sure to click the button, you can't take it back but it'll literally give me life.

_Technoblade whispered to W̸̪̜͂̇̚͜ỉ̸̖l̶̛̜̈́b̵͚̟̊u̴̢̠͐r̸̦͂S̸̲̝̈́ő̸͎̍o̸̱̦̜͝t̴̺̻̼͆: Hey uh, Wilbur? Where are you, bro?_

_Technoblade whispered to W̸̪̜͂̇̚͜ỉ̸̖l̶̛̜̈́b̵͚̟̊u̴̢̠͐r̸̦͂S̸̲̝̈́ő̸͎̍o̸̱̦̜͝t̴̺̻̼͆: God this is cringy_

_Technoblade whispered to W̸̪̜͂̇̚͜ỉ̸̖l̶̛̜̈́b̵͚̟̊u̴̢̠͐r̸̦͂S̸̲̝̈́ő̸͎̍o̸̱̦̜͝t̴̺̻̼͆: Wilbur please answer me_

_Technoblade whispered to W̸̪̜͂̇̚͜ỉ̸̖l̶̛̜̈́b̵͚̟̊u̴̢̠͐r̸̦͂S̸̲̝̈́ő̸͎̍o̸̱̦̜͝t̴̺̻̼͆: ...I'm worried_

_Technoblade whispered to W̸̪̜͂̇̚͜ỉ̸̖l̶̛̜̈́b̵͚̟̊u̴̢̠͐r̸̦͂S̸̲̝̈́ő̸͎̍o̸̱̦̜͝t̴̺̻̼͆: ~~I miss you~~_

_Technoblade whispered to W̸̪̜͂̇̚͜ỉ̸̖l̶̛̜̈́b̵͚̟̊u̴̢̠͐r̸̦͂S̸̲̝̈́ő̸͎̍o̸̱̦̜͝t̴̺̻̼͆: If you see this, answer asap everyone's looking for you_

* * *

_‘Hot’_

_‘Hot’_

_‘Hot’_

_‘Yah it’s hot dipshits, it’s literal Hell’_

_‘E’_

_‘Technolate’_

Techno's ear flickered at the incessant chatter, effectively distracting Chat with the jingle of his golden earrings. He snorted through his nose in amusement. He didn't feel comfortable in the Nether, Deep down he was still that scared little piglet that cowered from the gold-haired man in the strange clothes and armor. Danger seemed to be ever-present in a place like this. It always managed to bring out the worst memories to the surface.

The throng of horses he had brought with him whinnied nervously, instinctually feeling the dangers of their surroundings. Techno averted his gaze away from the passing patrol of piglins, ears twitching towards the sounds of envy they made at his heavy jewelry. Yeah, getting his things back was the easier part, now he had to transport them back to his new base. Joy.

He carefully stepped down the cobble stairs feeling if the obsidian floor beneath his hooves was safe enough for the horses' much bigger ones. He pulled at the lead he had tied around each muzzle and the eight-horse Hitch continued down the bridge. (He hoped that the last carriage didn’t fall at the turn- shit he should’ve stayed at the back.) It was mostly luck on his part, he forgot that he had so many warhorses just sitting around, now he wouldn't have to return a thousand trips just to transport all of his iron blocks. At least the animals were bred to be mild-mannered. 

He sent a look to the back of the convoy, everything seemed to be in order, but experience was a tough teacher. Anything could happen at a moment's notice, ending up in their fiery deaths via molten lava.

He turned to pet the closest horse on the muzzle. His Chat insisted on giving the animals a name as a reward for their hard work. The hybrid had agreed, of course, a happy Chat was a good Chat and he’d rather let them have it than spend his time arguing. He honestly didn't get the hype- he stopped getting attached to his horses since he was fifteen. In any case, the most popular choice has been Carl, for now, he guessed that this big guy was the lucky winner. 

The lava underneath them bubbled, sending splatters of melted rock on the cobble railing. Techno sniffed the hot air with his muzzle, trying to find out if there are any predators close-by. He was lucky that most of the monsters recognized him as a piglin rather than a player, it was the horses he was worried for. Some creatures liked to attack anything that moved on sight and his herd of twitchy mammals was a prime target. In any case, there didn't seem to be any immediate danger close-by. 

The newly named Carl snorted, soft nose burying himself in the fine hairs on his head. Techno hoped he wouldn’t decide to bite and pull, Chat would cry if he got killed so quickly after being named. Fortunately, the horse seemed to have some common sense on him.

Techno pressed forward. The portal was just around the corner.

_‘Technopig’_

_‘Carl!!’_

_‘When is Phil coming back? I'm bored’_

_‘Please tell me he's going to the village soon.’_

The hybrid snorted, pushing Carl through the glowing portal, letting the rest of the throng follow after the stallion. He wanted to leave asap. Seven horses later and he himself crossed the purple substance. He paused, breathing the fresh air of the Overworld. The effect was almost instant, as his entire body morphed back into its human form.

He carefully unclasped the too-large septum and other golden piercings. The only jewelry that remained were the earrings, softly jingling from his large porcine ears. He missed his crown. At the time, taking off his gold for the sake of the Netherite's sturdy protection seemed like a good idea, but hindsight told that he should have kept what brought him comfort in a lost fight. 

(He still hasn't found the crown, though his suspicions lead to theft- specifically at Tommy's hands.)

He spent the rest of his morning doing chores. He and Phil had basically moved in as soon as the older man had logged in and the house was still in complete disrepair from the sudden activity. The building needed general upkeep since he hadn’t visited in months. He checked for any notes Phil might’ve left for him, ‘ah’ in triumph as he spotted the single torn piece of paper.

_Received an invitation for citizenship in L’manburg. Curious as to what's going on. See you in a week, blow the country up if I don’t return on time._

_Love you._

_PS. A family of raccoons has moved into the basement, you might want to check that out._

_'Awww'_

_‘Dadza!’_

“Bruh.” He whispered under his breath the mental imagery. He’s been wondering why they had so little food. The thought of those weirdly humanoid hands all over his potatoes made him shiver. He hated raccoons. In any case- he had to deal with that as well. The day progressed.

Chat was humming some song or another, pleasantly distracted by the rhythmic pace of choring. Techno let his frayed nerves settle as he shoveled in the snow- snowfall had increased in the past week. The seasons were turning, and Techno hasn’t seen a winter this harsh since that decade he spent in the 2b2t server. Maybe he should begin to stockpile food.

‘The oldest anarchy server in Minecraft!’

“Yes, Chat, the oldest blah, blah, blah… Fun times. That bad boy could fit _so much_ childhood trauma back in the day.”

He went on with his day, baking bread and making rabbit stew. He contemplated whether he should actually go to trade with the villagers. At this point, most of them are probably dead if he were honest. They’ve either frozen to death or the monsters have taken them.

_‘Go! Go! Go!’_

_‘Istg if anyone else snitches I’ll get angry’_

Techno huffed. He guessed it was time to go.

The trip to the village was inevitable as it was annoying. There was a point at which Chat stopped being an overwhelming force that compelled him to commit atrocities, and became a really annoying flock of flies that wouldn't stop buzzing in his ear.

The destination wasn't that far really, it was a small little hamlet, stubborn enough to survive the harsh climate and hostile terrain. He honestly felt bad for putting them down like that, they've gone past the stone age and all.

The population was mainly composed of the older villagers who hadn't moved to L’manburg to seek opportunities. Techno had been hesitant to intrude, unsure if foreigners- let alone players- were welcomed, but the granny in charge of the small bakery had seen his 9 feet tall figure tugging at a massive warhorse, and had immediately rushed to offer a recently baked pumpkin pie, so he supposed he was alright.

Technoblade absentmindedly scratched Carl's neck as he waited for the only farmer in the entire village to return with his emeralds. To be honest, he thought it was kind of a ripoff, but he remembered that the villagers were dumb as rocks and traded with sheaves and not bushels like any other player, so he couldn't be that mad at the price. He ended up profiting, after all.

He patted the pockets of his coat, gloved fingers immediately latching onto the small booklet he kept his notes in. He already sold the wheat, so that was done. Next were the potatoes, then the leather. Finally, he would search for the librarian to see if he knows any decent enchantments. 

He scratched away the first bullet point with a piece of charcoal tied to a stick. Then he pocketed the to-do list quickly just as the old man hobbled over to him with a small satchel clinking with the promised reward. Techno quickly inspected the contents. One emerald was missing and the gems themselves were more translucent than green but an emerald was an emerald, so he nodded once at the man before throwing the little bag in the cart Carl had been tugging through the snow. That was a patient horse if he’s ever seen one. He pretended he didn't see the old ma eying the piles and piles of barely covered potatoes.

"Thanks." He nodded vaguely. "I have some potatoes in the cart, do you mind taking them? I think they're about to go bad and I'd rather you use them to feed the pigs than letting them rot."

He watched as the old man's face lit up, thin lips stretching around a toothless grin. 

"Thank you, young man-" Techno was older than him. "The rest of the village will appreciate it. I can't pay you with gems but the boy two houses down gives away potions like candied pumpkin. Tell him old pa sent you."

A boy? Techno quirked his eyebrow at the man, but the villager had already busied himself with sorting a bushel of small, sickly-looking carrots. The hybrid rolled his eyes. The things he did for the peasants. 

He unceremoniously dumped three sacks of potatoes on the rickety counter before booking it from the stall. He ignored the man's distant exclamation of surprise as he ducked into an alley, Carl faithfully trailing after him. He had to investigate this village boy that could afford to give away potions, his instincts were telling him that there was more to the story.

He found the house easily since it was the last one on the only street the hamlet had, and knocked at the door, noting how the wood looked freshly chopped. In any other circumstance he might have assumed that a zombie had broken the previous one, but this time it just added to his suspicions. The building was old but looked freshly occupied. Whoever was here moved in recently. Just as he thought that the mysterious potion maker opened the door with a silent whoosh. 

Techno held back a laugh, the sound catching up in his throat as a weird choking noise. Well, well, well, look at how the mighty have fallen. His lips unconsciously curled in a mocking half-smile. 

"Welcome-" The crown and the sunglasses were missing, but Techno could recognize that voice everywhere. Clad in an ankle-length, red skirt and a simple woolen sweater, King Eret didn't look like the smug monarch Wilbur liked to describe in his lowest moments. 

"I see you recognize me." He said. 

Eret paused, but his eyes remained firmly shut as he nodded in assent. Techno could practically smell the fear exuding from him. Good.

"I don't need eyes to see the evil in your heart.” The man’s hand conspicuously rose to grab a non-existent sword on his belt. “Nice haircut by the way. It suits Wilbur's face shape perfectly."

"Hah. I'm glad you noticed, was it the big forehead that gave it away? I promise I tried to make a fringe." His fist clenched tighter around Carl's reigns despite the humor in his voice. "What are you doing in my neck of the woods, _Your Grace_?"

Eret scoffed. “As if you don’t know exactly why I’m here. Trust Dream to go overkill- just kill me already. I’m freezing my balls off in this weather.” 

Huh.

“Huh?” Technoblade took a step back. "Why is Dream suddenly involved in this conversation? I have nothing to do with that asshole.”

“Yeah sure, so you weren’t his biggest fan just a week ago, right?” Eret’s voice shook as he clutched the fabric of his sweater right above his heart. “Just- just don’t play with me, dude I’m already terrified. I don’t really want to die.”

“Wait- no, no, no! First of all, the thing with Dream was way-waaaaay back. Like years ago. Don’t do me like that, man, I have a reputation to upkeep. Things have changed- I’m not a Dream fan anymore. He’s canceled, I’m launching a campaign to put him down.” 

Eret furrowed his brow, mouth opened to ask a question.

“- Second of all, if I were to kill you- which I wouldn’t do on Dream’s behalf because I’m against the dude- you can just respawn on that bed behind you. I can’t be bothered with that, it looks like it’s made of solid spruce.”

Eret's relief was palpable, as he practically drooped in exhaustion. The former monarch buried his face in his palms, wiping away tears Techno pretended he didn’t see by pointedly looking away.

“I- That’s the worst, most unconvincing excuse I’ve heard.” The younger man sighed, shaking his head. “You haven’t heard of the new rules? Figures.”

Technoblade’s eyebrow climbed up his forehead. “New rules?” He asked skeptically.

Eret suddenly smiled, tilting his head as if hearing a particularly juicy gossip. He reclined against the wall, bold as brass now that he was sure that Techno wouldn’t kill him (yet). The change of demeanor perplexed Technoblade.

_‘He's being an idiot’_

_‘Hey! That’s biphobic!’_

“Oh, you don’t know?” Now he was smirking- Techno liked to go for the cocky ones first. “It’s so rare to see powerful men like you stay ignorant of the current events. Where were you this past week? Licking your wounds?”

Techno’s bolted, quickly unclasping the netherite ax on his back. He brandished the wicked-looking tool in one swift motion, pressing it against Eret’s softest spot. He watched with satisfaction as the man flinched and raised his arms defensively at the feeling of ice-cold netherite against the tender skin of his neck. Normally he would have left him to mouth off- he was a patient man, he could deal with a little teasing, but lately, he’s been very keen on violence. He didn’t even need an excuse.

"You know, I heard that you left the cake-eater life, the newspapers were raving on and on about your disappearance. The official story is that you got kidnapped by an unknown terrorist organization created by former founders of the country. It was all very suspicious. Totally not a ploy to turn the people against Tommy- the peasants loved that dude for some reason. In any case- You were Dream’s favorite puppet in the politics game, I’m sure you have a lot to tell me about Dear Leader.” He twisted his wrist juuuust so it would nick at that pale skin. “ I suggest you speak up before I snip that neck of yours like a pretty rose. You’re afraid of dying now, right?”

Eret opened his mouth to answer, composing himself despite his precarious position. Techno had to admire his spine. 

“All right, I’ll speak! I hate Dream just as much as you do, apparently. The enemy of my enemy, and all that right? Just put the ax down dude, it's making me nervous.”

Techno let the full weight of the blade fall away, taking a demonstrative step back with his hands raised. He half expected Eret to lunge at him in an attempt to escape or something. None of that happened. The man had simply pinched the bridge of his nose, probably nursing a headache from the stress.

“Come in, I’m sure you’re freezing just as much as I am.” Eret motioned to the inside of his small cabin. Techno nodded in acquiescence. It did look warm and he'd rather avoid the gathering mass of people behind him. He tied Carl to the nearest tree, patting the stallion’s neck once, and firmly shut the door behind him.

He sat down in one of the small rickety chairs Eret offered, wincing self-consciously as the poor thing groaned under his considerable weight. He placed his ax on the fragile table and turned his attention to Eret who was fluttering around his tiny kitchen. The mood swings on this man were jarring.

“You know, I didn’t expect to stay here for long. I mean- I just squatted in the abandoned building until the storm passed, but grandma Bertha said I was free to stay, and her pumpkin pie was to die for, so I couldn’t really refuse you know?” Eret continued to ramble before Techno could even get a word out. “I honestly didn’t expect to find you here, you don’t seem like the type to enjoy the cold. I mean- you look like a remote island kind of guy-! Which isn't like an attack on your uhm, constitution- I didn’t mean that piglins-!”

“-Unintentional microaggressions aside,” Techno interrupted the increasingly erratic rambles of the guy. “I didn’t come here to discuss the weather. You’re kinda wasting my time here. Get on with it.”

“Do you want tea?” Was the only shaky question Eret could offer as an answer. The hybrid watched as the younger man wrung his hands like a distressed housewife. Maybe he came on too strong with the violence.

“I want answers. Now.”

“Okay, okay.” Eret sat on the chair opposite of his. “Listen, Dream’s always had plans okay. He always had his goals, and I usually don’t care at all because I had a kingdom to rule, and he-”

“You mean the kingdom you got as a reward for betraying my twin brother?” Techno couldn’t help but interrupt.

“Yes-? Since when do you care about Wilbur like that, I thought you and Phil disowned him or something.” Techno cringed, gripping the table's edge as subtly as he could at Eret’s words. He's been stabbed in the chest before, but never this metaphorically. The other man nervously tried to push up glasses that weren’t there, before moving on with a grace only politicians could master. “In any case-! Dream was inoffensive at the time, and I saw no harm in following his orders. but then he- then Schlatt died…" 

Eret picked at a scab on his hand, without a care for the droplets of blood it caused. "Dream came to me the afternoon after the funeral, and he said… He said some things that made me realize that something wasn’t right.”

“Get on with it.”

Eret's head snapped up, blatantly showing his outrage. 

“Let me tell the story first! By the Chaos Maker! What's with you warrior types-? Anyway. He said that he’s stripping me of all legislative power- that meant that I couldn’t make laws anymore-”

“I know that anarchism isn’t a popular ideology to have, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t know how governments work. Move on.”

“Moving on- Basically he stripped me of all power. I was his puppet for all intents and purposes-”

“Shocking.”

“Will you stop!”

“Maybe.”

“You’re a frustrating man to be around.”

“That’s because you don’t remember living with Tommy.”

“Neither do you, but I see that it’s a hit under the belt, now that you’ve found yourself over-flowing with brotherly affection.” Eret retorted.

“...” Techno shifted in his chair, wincing at the menacing creaks under him. Talk about humiliating conversations. Eret was a vicious bastard, the hybrid could see the exact moment he latched on to the weakest parts of his underbelly like the harpy he was.

“Oh, you thought I didn’t know? Everyone suspected that you’re related. At least with Tommy- Wilbur was kinda obvious. We discussed it constantly, it was morbid to look at the way you three interacted. I’ve never seen a more fucked up family, and that's saying a lot since I know what happened to Quackity’s parents.”

Techno's fingers twitched in the direction of the ax's sturdy handle, making sure that the other saw his intention. He snorted aggressively as an irritated piglin would. The noise made Eret retreat, body angling as far away from him as he could. 

_‘Deep breaths. Like Phil taught us.’_

_‘Technomad’_

_‘BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!’_

_‘SKULL FOR THE SKULL THRONE!’_

Techno took a deep breath, stifling the threatening sound bubbling at the back of his throat. He twitched his ears just to hear the soft jingles of gold. Eret looked ready to bolt like the over-confident coward that he was.

“Get over with the story.”

The younger man visibly startled, fists periodically clenching and unclenching around the fabric of his dress 

“...Okay. After that-” Eret took a deep breath. “Wilbur blew up the country- he died. I did my hardest to help L’manburg, but Dream insisted that Tubbo had to _ask_ first. That obviously didn’t make sense, because the treaty we signed promised mutual aid no matter what, but Dream insisted, he said that Tubbo was too proud to accept hand-outs. Some weird family tradition- I didn't believe that shit for a second. I knew for a fact that the poor kid was healing in the hospital, and he couldn’t possibly ask for anything, but Dream didn’t care about that. I don’t think he even read my letter, because the only response I got was an order to sabotage Wilbur’s funeral.”

Techno made a sound of surprise at the back of his throat. Eret sent him a look- or well, as much of a look can be sent when one's eyes closed.

“Listen, I know that I’m capable of doing terrible things- I’ve done terrible things to Wilbur himself even, but sabotaging his funeral? It might be difficult to believe, but I respected him. That was just cruel."

They eyed each other in suspicion. Techno chose to speak first.

“I’m mostly asking myself how does one sabotage a funeral, to be honest.”

Eret pushed his invisible glasses up his nose once again.

“I don’t know. Maybe tell everyone where he’s going to be buried? By that time we already counted the victims, I’m sure that someone out there would have liked to piss on his grave.”

“I suppose you were included in that count.”

“Well, no one invited you to a grave-pissing contest when you went back to L’manburg did they?”

Techno twitched his ear, amused at the second-take at the appendage Eret did.

“So that’s why you left. You finally caught on to what everyone else already knew and grew a conscience?”

The man scoffed. “Don’t be obtuse. I told you that the rules have changed didn’t I?”

On the outside a blizzard blew past the small village, its very winds shaking the foundations of the houses. Poor Carl hid under the tree, faithfully waiting for his master. Eret smirked, closed eyelids curling into condescending crescents Techno wanted to claw out.

“Say Technoblade, have you tried logging out recently?”

* * *

Sun Tzu once said that subtlety was an artform every commander had to be skilled at, even to the point of formlessness- Technoblade had successfully incorporated that piece of advice into any and all aspects of his life, much to the irritation to those closest to him. He liked to keep his motives and aspirations hidden to such a degree that he didn't notice how others hid theirs with the same results. Techno never thought he would see the day when someone would use his most prized tactics on him. Even less so without him realizing. 

He didn’t sleep that night. Eret’s mere presence one bed over irritated him immensely, but his words were the ones that kept him from falling into the blissful arms of Hypnos. The hybrid looked outside the small window- the blizzard wouldn't be over until tomorrow. He wondered how the former monarch could sleep with so much noise and movement, Techno felt as if the entire house was swaying under him. Shifting slightly from his stiff position on his bedroll, Techno stared at the other man’s sleeping form. The former monarch barely twitched, form prone on his mattress. He didn’t know if the man was even sleeping, or if that white-eyed god of his removed the need entirely.

He opened his chat again with a few flicks of his numbingly cold fingers. All communications with the outside world were cut off- none of his off-server allies answered to his increasingly erratic messages.

Technoblade was essentially trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st exam down 4 more to go T~T
> 
> I sincerely apologize to everyone for the mess that is my summary, I changed it twice, and both times were a disaster. I'm hoping that the third time is the charm. In fact, if you spot any theme that I haven't tagged in the summary, please make me know. I would hate to hurt someone because I'm forgetful.
> 
> As always, leave your comments and I hope you appreciate this chapter.


	6. Interlude 3: Winter came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo deals with the aftermath of receiving some terrible news from Dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Did you miss me? Anyways, exams are over and I'm free. As a treat this chapter is not two, but three times longer than usual. Yay! (I actually hope that it isn't too annoying to go through a chapter this big, that would be pretty awkward, I think) Enjoy and leave some Kudos, it will bring me joy!

A week later Tubbo felt guilty enough to visit Schlatt's grave. He didn’t want to hold a grudge, fighting a man that was long dead was a waste of time. (And that was another thing since apparently ghosts existed now, and wasn’t that just-  _ swell _ ) His point  _ was  _ that holding onto the anger was unhealthy for him, he was stressed enough as it was. Obsessing over the goat hybrid did nothing but bring on multiple headaches. In any case, Tubbo was tired, he didn’t have the energy to hold grudges. Holding onto the negative emotions made him miserable and he wanted to leave that behind him. Schlatt was dead, he couldn’t hurt him or those he cared about anymore. 

It was that newfound confidence the one that finally tipped him toward the decision to the man’s headstone. It was a modest little thing, overgrown and neglected. Tubbo felt kind of bad for letting that happen. He shifted in his overly-large coat, the winter chill was getting worse, soon enough it would be impossible to go outside. He felt exposed in this place. The quiet made him paranoid, his mind blew every single sound out of proportion, every shadow was a monster ready to pounce. One might say that the place was haunted, and Tubbo would have been inclined to agree at some point, but his conversation with Schlatt was proof enough that the former president didn’t have any intention of possessing him or doing other creepy shit. That at least he was willing to believe- something gave him the impression that Schlatt wouldn't be interested in a second puberty.

The place was simply abandoned. Left behind by people who've been hurt too many times to wish to come back. Exactly what Schlatt had sown, and now reaped in Hell.

The teen winced at the memory of his last conversation with him. It was embarrassing how easily he lost control of his emotions- and the things he was saying!- some of them were awful  _ awful _ stuff. Words he didn’t want to repeat to anyone ever again.

( _ I would pay good money to watch your diabolical heart burst again in front of me! _ )

He never wanted to see someone die in front of him- it was traumatizing even when the ones who died could come back- it kept him up at night. Gods, he should apologize, that was a terrible thing to say to anyone no matter how much pain he’s caused him. 

He might’ve chased his former mentor away forever.

The thought made him halt mid-step, frowning at himself. Yes, good. It was a good thing if Schlatt left him alone. He didn’t have any business close to L’manburg or him. He never wanted Schlatt to be his mentor, he was condescending, rude, and hurtful at all times. Wanting him back wasn’t healthy. He approached the tombstone, green from neglect. There was a single bench to the side, made of stone and bound to make his butt freeze. He sat on it anyway, after pushing around the light coat of snow on it.

Tubbo was doing this for himself. To get closure for his own sake, he didn’t care what anyone else thought. Even Quackity’s clear disapproval at the idea didn’t dampen his mood. He hugged himself, already beginning to feel the chill of the winter breeze blowing around him.

He surveyed the area. More than a grave it was an alleyway. In a private part of the office district, of course, the two towering buildings surrounding the small plot of land gave some modicum of privacy, but Tubbo felt mostly claustrophobic. He directed his attention to the thing he came for.

Schlatt’s tombstone was blank, save for the name. No one knew when Schlatt was born, and his death was considered a minor holiday anyway. At one point it occurred to Tubbo that Wilbur might have known Schlatt’s birthdate, it was sad that he didn’t share that detail. One of many other things he wanted to ask the older man. 

He blew a cloud of condensed water, watching as the little puff floated away. He should get on with it, the paperwork at his office wasn’t going to fill itself.

He cleared his throat nervously eying Schlatt's final resting place as if the man himself would sprout out of the ground.

“Hey, uhm-” His voice cracked. “Hey, Schlatt. I hope you can’t hear this. It would be pretty embarrassing if you do. I don’t know exactly how… ghosts work? In any other case, I would say that I hope you haven’t passed away into the afterlife, but that would be a lie.” 

He laughed, feeling better about the whole situation already. 

“I just came here to say that I’m sorry. What I said to you was terrible and made me feel bad- you don’t deserve it from me. There are so many people who should get the chance to tell it to you before I did. People who you’ve really hurt. Tommy and Wilbur come to mind.”

He paused, exhaling shakily. He didn't know what to do with himself, his gloved hands couldn't stop fluttering around, trying to find something to grip and his foot wouldn't stop bouncing in agitation. Schlatt made him nervous- anything to do with him made him nervous. A part of him had gotten used to the constant stress, if not out of fear of discovery then because Schlatt liked to hover, toxicity wafting around him just like the stench of alcohol. Good riddance.

“That’s it. I guess. Don’t talk to me, like- ever. I hate you  _ and  _ everything you stood for, so… Yeah.” He shrugged. "Bye. I hope for forever."

He looked around just in case Schlatt did decide to pop out of somewhere and kill him. Nothing. The alley was empty and pretty quiet, save for the occasional howl of the wind. He got up and left without a second glance. He was done here.

* * *

He returned to his entire cabinet piled up in front of his office. There was something funny about seeing everyone lined up in their formal suits looking overly serious, while he just strolled in with a winter coat and a beanie that was too big for his head.

“Gentlemen.” He stopped in front of Quackity, taking off his gloves in the meantime. His Vice President looked grim, deep eye-bags standing out prominently. Tubbo was getting worried. The small smile that had formed on his face at the sight of his friends slipped away as he figured out that something was truly wrong. He ruffled his hair, hoping it looked more or less presentable.

“What happened?”

Quackity offered him the letter he had been clutching in his hand without uttering a word. Tubbo pressed his lips into a thin line, he had a bad feeling about this. He looked over the wax seal that held the message shut. Dream. Of course. Of  _ course. _

He opened the envelope with trepidation.

_ Dear President Underscore, _

_ I am glad to announce the implementation of a new and exciting game mechanic to the SMP. For years I’ve been trying to improve the vanilla experience without the need for any plugins added to the server, and I’m happy to present the solution I have come up with.  _

_ The three lives system!  _

_ The respawn mechanic has been taken for granted for far too long, it’s an easy way to shrug off injuries and avoid severe consequences for one’s actions. Well not anymore! The three lives each player possesses will be taken away with each death I consider relevant or of significant importance. You, President Tubbo Underscore, are on your last canon life, so you better not get into any trouble ;) _

_ I pray to the Gods for your speedy recovery from the injuries suffered during the festival and the war! _

_ Best wishes, _

_ Administrator Dream _

“What? What is this?” He waved the piece of paper in the air, expecting to get told that it was all a prank. What the fuck was Dream playing at?

“It’s illegal according to three-hundred different law systems across the servers, that's what it is. I got the same shit.” Quackity scoffed, showing off his own death sentence. He then shoved his thumb in Fundy, and the new guy’s direction prompting them to show their own threatening messages. His cousin patted his pocket, while the tall stranger nodded silently in assent looking more fidgety in his presence than at the situation. The President shook his head, completely baffled.

“Can you glean  _ anything _ from the letters?” Tubbo passed down the note to his Vice President. A thousand different questions bubbling out of him. “What’s… what does a 'plugin' even mean? Am I the only one who gets one life from the get-go? What happens if I die? Did George approve of this?”

“Uhh, we don’t know.” The stranger piped up in a surprisingly deep voice. “Like- at all. I have three lives and Fundy has two… but that’s all. It kinda sucks because no one told me this would happen when I joined.”

“I have two as well.” Quackity offered, sharp gaze roaming over Tubbo’s letter. “There isn’t anything new in this, I assume that every player has received one. We don’t even know what qualifies as a significant death, and since we can’t exactly fight the decision… Of course, he would do that, that piece of shit. Talk about unconstitutional- if Hypixel finds out about this…”

“We’re fucked.” Tubbo winced. It didn’t escape his notice that the letter was written by the impostor. The impostor who was getting better and better at imitating the real deal. The impostor whose existence he couldn’t prove after the stunt Schlatt pulled with the glass of water over the  _ non-waterproof _ ink. “We don’t have a say in this  _ obvious  _ transition to Hardcore mode?”

Fundy huffed something under his breath as the stranger stepped forward.

“We could contact Hypixel- they won’t ban us if it’s not our fault, right? They can uh… ban Dream?”

Quackity shook his head, mouth crooked into a grim line. “Nope. We’re cut off from the outside, I tried to contact a few associates that can help. If the Administrator chooses to close down all communication with outside servers and realms he can do that-  _ unfortunately _ . No one will know what’s happening.”

The president blinked, taking in the information. A headache was already building up behind his eyes. He rubbed his face with a hand, trying to hold back a sigh. He’s not surprised, not really- hell, he’s not even that scared of dying without respawn, even though every bone in his code-loving body knew that it was a terrible game to play with death.

“Can we write to Dream? Does he answer questions- like a FAQ section?” Fundy grimaced, looking away from his companions’ identical expressions. “I can’t believe that I’m asking this. This server is a joke.”

“We can try?” The half-and-half man murmured, unsurely.

Tubbo nodded to himself before squinting at the stranger, suddenly remembering that he was in the room with them, as they discussed private information.

“I’m sorry but who are you?”

The newcomer blanched, hands wringing nervously.

“Uhm, no one important? Ranboo, I’m Ranboo… Sir. I decided to join your administration as an intern. I'm also the new member of the SMP…? I thought that Dream had told you about me."

Tubbo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Great, he had a headache. Better greet this Ranboo dude and hope he sticks around. They could really use another helping hand around here. Instead of groaning out loud as he desperately wanted to, he plastered a slightly forced smile on his face.

“No, as you can see, direct communication with the Admin is near impossible. I had no idea we accepted more members, but I hope you have fun here nonetheless!” He trusted his hand forward, trying to be polite despite the bubbling rage and helplessness he felt on the inside. “I’m Tubbo by the way, the man in charge around these parts.” The newly introduced Ranboo hunched his tall,  _ tall _ form to reach his offered hand better. (Like seriously, Tubbo's seen big men, BBH could barely fit through the doorways, but this guy was  _ massive! _ ) He shook the teen’s hand with a crooked smile, noticing that the black palm was sweaty as all hell. They separated soon after, Tubbo subtly wiping his hand on his jeans.

Quackity snorted under his breath, eyes still roaming over Dream’s neat cursive. “He’ll have fun if he survives.”

“Well-”

“I- Thank You!” Ranboo interrupted. “Kinda sucks because I can’t leave what with the lockdown- but I hope we don’t die?”

“You can’t leave?” Tubbo lifted his eyebrow curiously at the nervous teen, wondering what exactly he meant by that. 

“Check your menu. We literally can’t leave.” Quackity said in a deadpan tone, his face matched the intonation. Tubbo did just that, his heart pounding harshly in his chest. Just as Quackity said, his menu was barren save for the ‘Achievements’ button. Fuck. He was going to have a panic attack, wasn’t he? 

( _ Come on, don’t pussy out and take deep breaths for me big man, I’m here _ . _Shhh..._ )

Tubbo squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed at the tears he could feel slipping out. 

( _ Tommy… _ )

Thankfully his cabinet remained respectfully silent, though he knew that they detected every single emotion on his face. He wiped away at his entire face to disguise the unfortunate tears that had spilled down his cheeks. Tubbo was sure that he appeared completely unfit to make any decisions- completely unlike a President. If he could only- a sob made his breath hitch, making turn red. If he could only compose himself... He cleared his throat awkwardly, taking the brief silence to look around the room.

_ What the-? _

“Quackity why aren’t you wearing any- Fundy? Where is Fundy? He was supposed to watch you.”

“I don’t know.” Quackity shrugged, letting his button shirt and suit jacket fall on the floor. “I’m feeling in the mood though.”

“Oh, he bailed!” Ranboo piped in, overly enthusiastic for the situation they’re in. “He does that often. I don’t know what’s his deal, to be honest.”

“His dad died like, a month ago.”

“ _ Oh…” _

“Yeah,” The Vice President noted. Still naked from the waist up. “We should have noticed something when Wilbur didn’t respawn.”

“Quackity please put your shirt back on, this isn’t the time for shenanigans.”

“Tubbo I am  _ furious _ , and  _ this  _ close to setting Dream on fire, let me have my tits out in the open.”

“Absolutely not- there’s staff here.” Tubbo hissed under his breath. “You can’t get naked in public, you're the Vice President.  _ We’ve talked about this. _ ”

“That’s- that’s weird. I wasn’t warned about this either!” Ranboo said. Tubbo felt utterly ignored.

“Anyway, the thr-no, four of us, need to have a meeting about this. I’ve been working on a solution in case of events like this one.” The lawyer cum Vice President rubbed his hands together. The statement took Tubbo by surprise, distracting him from the fact that his second in command was a nudist. One got used to it anyway, the staff could deal with partial nudity.

“I’m surprised that you’ve thought this far ahead, Quackity.”

The older man blinked at him with a skeptic look, as if waiting for an insult. “What did you think I was doing all this time?”

Tubbo blinked innocently, much to the older man's consternation.

“Honestly? Cocaine. Lots and lots of it. Not that I blame you or anything, I would too if I had the time.”

“Fair enough,” Quackity said with a half-hearted shrug.

* * *

“Alright!” Quackity, thankfully with a button-up (a barely buttoned-up one) on, slammed a folder on the conference table. The thing slapped loudly against the polished surface, making all four of them wince at the sound. “Yes- yes, the Dream SMP has a problem, a big,  _ big  _ problem in the form of these two!”

The Vice President shoved two photographs under their noses. Tubbo knew that the topic was serious, but he couldn’t hold back his snort of laughter at the sight of Techno’s derpiest face of anger, obviously a zoomed-in security camera capture. He stared at his nemesis’(?) amusing expression for a moment before moving on  to Dream’s much more intimidating expression of pure glee, barely visible behind the mail veil he wore that day. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Fundy pause on his own copy of Dream’s picture, fingers gently brushing over the surface. His unreadable expression then turned into a scowl as he broke eye contact with his ex-fiancee's photograph to focus on Quackity.

“Dream and Technoblade. Number one and number two menaces of society. Them and their subordinates are, quite frankly, the main instigators of the conflicts this server has seen. Their actions have consistently put the SMP’s fragile peace at risk. Furthermore, they’ve proven that they don’t have any regard for L’manburg’s safety or citizens, conspiring with dictators and terrorists.” Quackity took a deep breath, getting to the meat of his speech. “Unfortunately, they’re also the superpowers of this server, we’ll need something stronger and more organized to beat them, we need to mobilize. We are a sovereign country, with laws and democratically elected leaders, it behooves us to form an army that can fight back and doesn’t rely on a handful of players to defend our country. I  _ propose _ the Butcher Army.”

Quackity slid over a document detailing his proposition. Tubbo winced at the thickness of the folder, it probably contained reports of every single detail they would need for the project. Gods, even Business Bay didn't rely on bureaucracy so much. He gingerly picked up the dreaded paperwork. Everyone turned their expectant gazes in his direction. Quackity cleared his throat.

“Before you make a decision, Mr. President,” The Vice President began. “I want to highlight the  _ importance _ of setting a precedent. Many,  _ many  _ individuals who’ve done harm to the country haven’t suffered any consequences for their actions. I’m not implying that’s your fault in any way Mr. President- but you need to take that into account. L’manburg needs to set boundaries and have a reputation. Otherwise, everyone will try to step on us.”

“That’s just not possible.” Fundy piped in out of nowhere. He reclined backward on his chair, exuding nonchalance. “We signed a treaty- we’re Dream’s vassals, so is everyone else on the server. Both the Badlands and the Greater DSMP will gang up on us if we try to kill him- or his subordinates. In any case, he’s the only one who can punish others- it’ll be an act of treason to attack his allies and our fellow vassals.”

“When was the last time Dream ever punished infighting? Bigus Dickus sure likes to remind us that he’s the boss, but I don’t remember him taking any measures for dearest Sapnap and his  _ extensive _ list of misdeeds against us. He allows Sapnap to do what he pleases because he benefits from it. Our supposed vassalage is a thinly-veiled hostage situation. He and his lackeys can do everything they want to us, but we’ll be causing a war if we decide to fight back. He’s not going to serve any justice because he’s the one causing most of the mess- that’s why we’re overthrowing him, Fundy.”

Fundy groaned, rubbing at his temple. “My point still stands, we could cause a war. We signed a binding document,” Tubbo winced. He wished he were lucid enough when Dream shoved the piece of paper under his nose. “ L’manburg forming an army to hunt down SMP citizens and overthrow the King is a casus belli. We want to assassinate Dream, Sapnap, etcetera and be done with it, obviously- but what will happen is a direct war that  _ will  _ get BBH and his posse involved, once he finds out that we’re hunting his only son and his darling Admin. We’ll get crushed before your plan even begins.”

“Adopted?” Ranboo murmured to himself. 

“We can’t afford another war,” Tubbo declared. “I’ll authorize the Butcher Army only if we narrow our target list to Technoblade and associates. Dream doesn’t have a say in our affairs with outsiders, nor how we choose to punish them.”

“We’ll begin with the pig, then. Though I will find a way to kill Dream one way or another, Mr. President.” Quackity said absentmindedly, not noticing how the entire room froze at his comment.

“The  _ piglin hybrid _ .” Fundy hissed, offended on behalf of his father, as well as himself. Tubbo was inclined to agree, he thought that Quackity knew better.

“Quackity let’s avoid remarks like that.” He said firmly. “They’re inappropriate, L’manburg is a safe haven for everyone no matter the species. 

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Ranboo appeared to relax in his seat, sending both of them subtle looks of relief. Quackity, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable, murmuring his apologies without looking at them while Fundy simply shook his head in disapproval. They could resolve the issue on their own, he was done berating adult men over basic concepts, dealing with one Schlatt was enough.

“As for Dream, you can do whatever you want in your free time, as long as you don’t let it be associated with my administration.”

Tubbo focused on the stack of documents Quackity plopped on his table, rubbing his chin in thought, as his eyes slid over the main points of the proposal. It looked good so far- sensible even. Quackity was right- to a degree. Some good ninety percent of their problems wouldn’t have existed if Dream stopped putting his nose in everything and they had a pair of laws that sanctioned misbehaviors without relying on war as the ultimate conflict resolver. At this point, Tubbo believed that the man had more fingers than there were pies to put them into. Not to mention the consequences of their actions-

_ (Burning pain. Tommy’s soothing voice in his ear. The smell of a pungent ointment in his nose, barely covering the one of burned flesh. The screams of anguish pierced his ear- one endless chorus that can’t stop, still nothing in comparison to the sound of sizzling skin. The heart of the server is- _ )

The thing was, Tubbo wanted to be better than the men who'd hurt him. Technoblade and Schlatt didn’t know how to forgive others, they couldn’t simply let it go, it was always personal- a do or die situation when it didn’t have to be. The retaliation always had to be overboard, to  _ crush _ the opposition for even daring to exist. Tubbo couldn't be like that, he's never been, and he never will be. Wilbur raised a gentle soul, whether it was for better or for worse.

But.

L’manburg was in a fragile position. Technoblade didn’t even need a motive half of the time, the country was an enemy just by existing. As much as Tubbo wanted to bury the hatchet, the moment the pig hybrid became displeased with them it would be over. He couldn’t allow that in good conscience as long as L’manburg was under his protection.

The less could be said about Dream, the better. He didn’t know if Administrators could die- hell, he didn’t even know if the  _ thing possessing _ him could. It was not worth the hassle, going after Sapnap was going after Dream and his little team. No one wanted to involve BBH in this, a war would be enough. Tubbo bit his lip, eyes sliding over the face of every man under his command. He laced his fingers together, scarred but healing. He's made a decision. Quackity was going to hunt Technoblade down, whether Tubbo gave him permission or not. He could see it in the Vice President's eyes- Tubbo was better off knowing exactly what he was doing.

"Quackity, I’ll let you be in charge of this little project of yours. I know you don't have much experience in the military so Fundy will be your second in command." He nodded towards his cousin, watching both their reactions carefully. "I believe that you can do this, Fundy. Both of you will report to me in a month."

"Yes sir," Fundy raised his hand in the L'manburg salute- posture straightened and heels clacking sharply against the marble floor- perfectly executed from hours of military drills. An almost obsolete gesture nowadays. His expression was unreadable, but Tubbo supposed that he was content enough to follow the orders. Giving him something to focus on might help him distract himself. He returned the gesture out of nostalgia, feeling the tension between his shoulders relax despite the formal situation.

Quackity looked devilishly pleased with the outcome.

"I knew you'd make the right decision Mr. President. I'll begin to make preparations." The Vice President left with a clumsy, but oddly respectful salute. Fundy followed after him, looking more alive than ever since Wilbur's death, weirdly enough. The door to the meeting room clicked shut. Silence descended.

Only one person remained in the room beside him, hesitantly leafing through the files Tubbo hadn't bothered to read. For the first time since their introduction, Tubbo took his time to observe the newest addition to the server. To be honest… he wasn't sure as to what exactly he was looking at. 

The height and the black coloration suggested a half enderman, Ranboo also had obvious player ancestors given his humanoid form and player abilities- yet his other half was pure white…

"Say Ranboo," Tubbo cleared his throat. "Can you- um, I hope this isn't rude, but I have to ask, what type of hybrid are you?"

The intern blinked, not looking overly offended which much to Tubbo’s relief. Especially given Quackity’s… yeah. He shouldn’t have asked. Gods, what was wrong with him today?

"I- uh, I kind of don't know? I know that I'm half enderman, but the other half is a complete mystery. I have what's called Anterograde Amnesia- short-term memories can't become long-term memories that easily for me. Most of my own history is a mystery to me." Ranboo explained before catching himself. "Sorry, I'm rambling aren't I? I guess I'm used to being asked questions. I'm not losing my job over this right? That would be pretty embarrassing. I told Mr. Vice President b efore he hired, so I thought it was fine-"

"Quackity would actually have a stroke if you called him Mr. Vice President to his face," Tubbo said, covering his smile with his hand. He was grateful for the change of topic. "And no, I'll never fire you for that. If perfect physical and mental health were a requirement, none of us would even have political careers. I just want to get to know you Ranboo, tell me about yourself."

The half-enderman, fidgeted with the cuff of his jacket, long fingers tugging and twisting the crisply ironed fabric of the suit.

"Well, I'm twenty-three, and from what I heard that's the age of majority around here…?"

Tubbo winced. "It's complicated. See, normally we would stick to the standard, thirty as the age of majority, but when Schlatt came into power- I assume you don't know the details- but when Schlatt came into power he kind of imposed his old server's laws. So the age got bumped down to eighteen and this way I could form part of the administration legally. It was very weird- most of us protested, but Dream said it was fine so we had to suck it up. Drugs are also legal, but enchanted gapples aren’t, and you could be sentenced to death for playing 'Stal' in public at one point. He was a disturbed individual."

Ranboo blinked, looking relatively unperturbed, though the subtle tug he gave his tie told another story.

"I see."

"In any case- You'll catch up quickly. You can always ask me if you have any doubts. My office is two floors below, you can't miss it!"

"I thought this was your office." The teen pointed at the door that led to Quackity's office. Tubbo turned around on habit, promptly shaking his head in dismissal.

"That one is Quackity's, I let him have it. It used to be Schlatt's… Anyway. So you're twenty-three, same as me! Anything else? We don’t have to be stiff and formal all the time- I think that Big Q will blow a fuse if he had to call me Mr.President once more.”

"As I said I have memory problems?" Ranboo hesitated. "Dream whitelisted me and I sort of wandered his country. Then I heard of the Red Festival, but by the time I reached the country, the explosion had gone off…" 

The tall teen gestured with his hands, mimicking a miniature explosion. Tubbo nodded, it made sense for the cabinet to welcome an intern when he was healing.

"What did you do before coming here?"

"Oh- That's embarrassing- I used to dance…" His voice faltered at the end of the sentence gaining a wavering quality to it. Tubbo wondered why. Dancing was better than politics in every conceivable way.

"That's cool! Oh man, Wilbur-" His sentence died in the back of his throat.  _ Wilbur, Tommy, and I used to go to the dancing festivals in Phil's kingdom,  _ he was about to say, yet the words wouldn't come out. He swallowed heavily, meeting Ranboo's curious eyes. Green and red, how unusual… "I mean- I learned how to play the piano when I was younger. I've always wanted to do something with that. My uh… My older brother was a poet and we loved making duets and all that. I guess- well, I thought that was our thing, music, and the arts. Then I came here."

"You- Your older brother is Wilbur Soot?" Tubbo nodded at the bizarre question. Ranboo buried his head in his hands. " _ The  _ Wilbur Soot? The man who made an Administrator fight back? The war general?  _ That _ Wilbur Soot?"

Tubbo rolled his eyes with a scoff. "Oh come on! He was a soft boy singer who wanted to do drugs legally, why does everyone paint him as such a scary guy? His favorite pastime was geography, can you  _ imagine? _ He spent his days making little maps. Just picture a grown man throwing tantrums over a poorly-drawn continent. That's just embarrassing."

Ranboo flushed with what appeared to be anger of all things. 

"He was the founder of L’manburg! That's important dude, respect hist- oh god." Ranboo inhaled sharply through the nose, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. "I forgot who I was talking to. I just told the country's founder t to respect history-" 

Ranboo produced a small whimper, hand firmly placed over his eyes. Tubbo stifled a surprised chuckle. To be honest, he didn't know when or how the news of their backwater server reached the outside. At one point their revolution became  _ big _ and  _ important _ to outsiders. Teachers had a curriculum around the war, and Administrators were pressured to give statements about the situation.

Somehow, against all logic and reasoning, Wilbur's little drug van had been the first political faction to oppose an Administrator directly. More importantly, it was the first time an Administrator chose to fight back so viciously. Everyone wondered why Dream was making such a big deal out of a rebelling country. He was an Administrator, all that separated him from peace and quiet had been the /ban command, but no. He declared war. A real war with real consequences and scars that remained.

( _ He took Tubbo’s childhood for a piece of land.) _

No one was happy with Dream during that time, and that used to be the only thing that kept L’manburg going after Eret destroyed what little morale they had. The outsider Players were furious. An entire war over some no-name Admin's ego? Absolutely ridiculous- especially when minors were involved.

Tubbo, still seventeen at the time, hadn't understood why everyone liked them so much. The support was almost universal, though it didn’t do much to help them win. Wilbur couldn’t lead an army on his own, used to relying on Eret for help- Fundy tried his best to turn the tides with his spy network, but it became clear that they were losing. Then Tommy gave away the disks. Time had barely put things into perspective, but he still struggled to comprehend the implications of what they did. Winning set a precedent.

"It's fine." He assured the other teen after a while. Relief made Ranboo slump on his chair. "It's alright! It’s all a matter of perspective, right? I'm glad you respect L’manburg’s history so much, the country is very dear to me. I would be happy to tell you everything I know at some point.

"Th-Thank you, Mr. President."

He shook his head. "It's just Tubbo, Ranboo. Let's not take everything so seriously, Quackity takes his pants off in public.”

Ranboo laughed.

Later on, when Tubbo had managed to pry everything he could from the other, and they had established the beginnings of a friendship, he gave Ranboo a task.

"Since you've had experience with urban upkeep, would you mind doing something for me Ranboo?" He asked almost slyly as if he were trying to rope him in something terrible. The hybrid tilted his head curiously, eyes roaming over the Netherite ax Tubbo had lent for inspection. "Winters around here are a bit of a nightmare, you see. Nights get ridiculously long and the more darkness there is…"

"More monsters appear." Ranboo supplied the logical conclusion almost instantly. Good. He wasn't stupid. "Should I build a wall? That's going to take ages, L'manburg is huge."

"Oh don't worry, we have the materials, I can spare some workers.” He dismissed the other’s concern. “Just build the walls, and then you'll be in charge of them. I'm sure you can organize a few patrols and form some kind of watch. The people need jobs to occupy their time now that the farms are freezing over. I think we all need to feel safe right now."

Delegation. Division of tasks. Teamwork. It had worked for Schlatt, it should work for him too, right? Ranboo seemed to agree, judging by the excited spark in his eyes. Captain of the City Guard wasn't such a bad title.

* * *

Months passed. Quackity began preparations immediately, racing against the advancing winter. The few available hours of daylight were spent in securing the region around the reconstructed walls of the country by placing light sources. Just as predicted, the nights grew longer and the monsters around them increased tenfold, attacking the most vulnerable parts of their defenses. Tubbo was sure that the lanterns and torches they placed weren't doing anything against the hordes of zombies and skeletons, and they were wasting precious daylight and the few resources they had, yet Ranboo insisted. The soldiers who survived the cold nights died fighting as the last defense against the invading creatures, their numbers dwindled quickly. Surprisingly enough Ranboo seemed to manage the responsibility well enough given the circumstances, as well as the tasks Quackity gave to him for the Butcher Army.

Tubbo, who had reestablished a solid sleeping schedule, began to neglect the bed he had set in the small break room down the hall he claimed as his home. His people couldn’t sleep while fighting for the country then why should he? His first priority was to survive the winter, he could rest in spring; when it was all over.

His first official decree as the President was to put L’manburg on lockdown, no man woman, or child was allowed to leave beyond the walls. The only ones allowed to pass through the gates were the supply convoys, news rarely reached the country anymore. As always there was no word of Dream- not even George deigned to answer his letters if they reached the man at all.

Earnest recruitment of new soldiers began. Children, really. Quackity had to halt his plans, much to his displeasure. All their supplies went to the remaining population, but even then Tubbo knew that luck wasn’t on their side. Inevitably, and despite the supplies Dream had graciously sent from his private savannah farms, the people began to die. Not even Fundy's automatic farms could manage to feed the dwindling population. The streets were littered with corpses and their straining hospitals, overfilled and understaffed even before the winter, began to close down.

L’manburg was dying.

Tubbo felt like he was failing spectacularly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I wrote this monster in 4 days after deleting my first draft for being unpog (Schlatt's POV, it just wasn't working out :( ). I made it this long both to celebrate the end of the exams period and because this is the last time we'll see Tubbo and the gang in a long time. You'll notice that we practically speedrun a few months, shooting faaaaar into the Winter (If you haven't noticed, I read GoT) to catch a glimpse of some future events. The next chapters will continue from where we left our other characters, don't worry.
> 
> Oh, and also, I'm changing the summary again (annoying, I know) mostly because there are some formatting/grammar errors in this one.


	7. In which Techno is an intruder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI I don't hate either Techno or Eret, if I did I wouldn't be writing about either. Also, Techno declared himself an unreliable narrator, so that's a disclaimer in itself. Also, all typos and grammar errors are my fault there is no beta in the picture, I have to edit this on my own.

Things didn’t get any better for Technoblade the next day. For one, the atmosphere certainly didn't light up, even with Eret gone for the morning, the inherent awkwardness permeated the very air in the house. The younger of the two bolted as soon as he woke up, disappearing to do some chore or another on the other side of the village, leaving Technoblade alone to stew. The night had been miserable, as far as nights in freezing temperatures went. He didn’t get a wink of sleep, just thinking until his head felt like it was full of wool. What the fuck was he supposed to do now that he couldn’t leave? That was the entire point of servers- the Players could leave any point with a flick of a wrist and the press of a button. Now that complete freedom of choice was gone in a snap.

What was he supposed to do if he had to stay in one place, possibly forever?

_ ‘Settle down. Create a family. Renounce your violent ways. Grow a community instead of destroying others'’. Find happiness beyond mindless bloodshed.’ _

_ ‘Bruh, just kill him permanently, it’ll be less painful than what I just read- heard…? Idk.’ _

_ ‘Kill Dream?’ _

_ ‘Kill Dream.’ _

_ ‘Kill Dream.’ _

_ 'E' _

Techno uncurled from his position on the woolen blanket he spent the night on, feeling stiff from laying on the hard floor. The morning sunlight seeped from the small window above his head, painting sharp shadows and warm corners on the surfaces of the house. A stray bird chirped from the tree on which he had tied Carl. A miracle on its own, since most creatures of this size would have died in the cold. The hybrid took a deep breath, he had to move on- to face the day and continue forward. 

_ ‘You have to speak with Eret.’ _

He had to speak with Eret. The hybrid winced. He  _ did _ barge in the man’s house forcibly. Now if he could own up to the initial burst of confidence that made such an action possible it would be great. One could dream.

Instead, he nervously hid in the only private room of the little cabin. The bathroom was a clear, if slightly inconvenient, choice to get his bearings in. Obviously, he had no intention of using the hole in the ground that counted as a toilet. (Still not the most clandestine one he's ever used) Instead, he produced a small mirror he'd swiped from Eret's night table and looked intensely at the reflection. The reflective surface told him that nothing had changed overnight, Wilbur still blinked blearily at him no matter how much he squinted against the dim morning light.

( _ It was a thing he did, now. Look at himself in the mirror just to see Wilbur again. Once he got over the initial hurt, the action almost became a habit he couldn't shake off. _ )

_ 'You look like a danish in a donut shop, nerd.' _

_ 'Like a cabbage head that's been kicked too much.' _

_ 'It's the ugly duckling.' _

_ 'Unwoven basket.' _

_ ‘Common decency tells me that I should politely refrain from commenting‘ _

He rubbed his jaw, his chin, his cheeks. At this point, his twin would have needed a shave. Technoblade had too much piglin in him for that- sometimes he wished it weren't so, the most he could grow was a pinkish peach-fuzz. Almost nothing compared to Wilbur's full beard-almost majestic if he didn't look like a prince charming under it. A pink strand fell into his eyes, momentarily distracting him. 

_ 'God who let him have scissors' _

_ '@???' _

_ '@??? You twisted fucker look at how you've massacred my boy.' _

_ 'In my defense, it was funny .' _

Technoblade exhaled a shaky breath, careful not to put out the sputtering flame of the candle he brought with him. He was glad for the distraction childishly cruel as it was, the next step was to begin comparing himself to Wilbur, just to prove to himself that he still remembered how his brother looked. The odd feeling of yearning settled at the bottom of his chest.

(He kinda had it ass backwards in that regard, didn't he? He barely talked to Wilbur when the guy was alive.) 

He put the strand behind his ear. His hair wasn't  _ that _ bad. A bit  _ avant-garde _ with the straight cuts and choppy bangs but it was nothing he hasn't seen before in the modern servers. Everyone knew that suffering from a mental breakdown meant a radical hairstyle change, he commented to Chat semi-sarcastically.

Still. He sighed, glad that he could wear a hood or some sort of warming headband most of the time. Compared to the peasants and the rest of the over-zealous players he did look quite different. Chat laughed quietly. The voices have been silent nowadays, a part of him worried that they’ll roar to full volume at any time like that week-long stunt. He couldn’t afford more days in a completely catatonic state- not now. He buried his face in his hands as he concentrated.

The chorus of different voices rose and ebbed like a wave, washing over him with a dull murmur. He stopped and listened to the cacophony for once- as always opinions were mixed. Some of the unknown beings had a certain fondness for him, while others enjoyed his suffering. He took his time to listen to all of them- at least until Eret returned. He stayed hunched into himself in the small room for what felt like hours, but logic dictated that was ten minutes at most. 

The door of the cabin opened with little force, but even that small disturbance of the structure made the walls tremble.

Eret was back, t³ime to face the music.

To call the bathroom he holed himself in little would be an understatement. He barely fit in the two by two by four nook, and getting out was an ordeal and a half that made him feel like a clown coming out of his little clown car. Sometimes he hated being so big, the house didn't help it either. There was one whole room that combined the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room in one cramped mess. Most of the space was occupied by a staircase that led to a block high attic, and the only other room was the small bathroom he had hidden in.

There was no plumbing or electricity, the only sources of light were the newly installed windows and the world's biggest collection of almost-used-up candles which Eret liked to light up without consideration for Techno's sensitive nose, or the horrendous mish-mash of scents the candles created. The furniture itself was old and weathered by continuous use, more often than not made by some type of wood he’s never seen before. Ugly but still serviceable… for normal-sized humans. Techno twisted his head from side to side, he was getting a crick in his neck from the low ceiling. He peeked around the corner, careful not to bonk his head against the little arch that marked the end of the hallway and the beginning of everything else.

Surprisingly, Eret was waiting for him in the kitchen, pumpkin pie silently offered on a plate in his hands, almost like a tribute.

"Thanks," He murmured.

Techno took the delicate porcelain thing almost timidly, careful to avoid brushing his scarred fingers against Eret's. Retreating quickly to the closest chair, he bit into the pastry hungrily, knowing that that small piece wouldn't be enough to satiate him. He closed his eyes, savoring this small moment of peace. 

It was good. He opened his eyes, noting that Eret hadn’t moved from his position near the small counter in the corner kitchen.

"The old lady's pie I assume."

Eret nodded, watching him warily, posture guarded. He hadn't looked away once since Techno stepped inside the room.

"Yes. Grandma Bertha's. She's the oldest woman in the village. Nothing can beat her cooking."

Techno paused mid-way through his next bite. "Wasn't that Quackity's-"

"Just don’t think about it." The man’s curls bounced slightly as he vehemently shook his head in dismissal. "Weird things like these happen all the time. I think we're better off not knowing."

Just as well. He shrugged and went back to eating. The clock on the wall ticked irregularly, marking a crooked beat that filled the room. Halfway through Eret got tired of pretending that he was organizing the small working space, and instead took out a few potion ingredients from the biggest cabinet on the wall. Technoblade saw the heavy thing’s precarious position on the wall and winced. There were less painful ways to die.

His attention was then attracted to Eret’s actions. That’s right, the rumored ‘potions boy’. The realization made the taste of sweet pumpkin turn to ashes in his mouth. He abandoned the empty plate on the table, bumping it against the netherite ax he hadn't put away since last night. He winced as the porcelain cracked at the slightest touch. Sometimes it was easy to forget that not everything was resistant to a Sharpness V enchantment. Players included. Some people were so unused to the magic that simply being close to the weapon caused cuts. His attention went back to Eret, specifically at his healed neck. The ax of peace would have slit an inexperienced Player's throat like a hot knife through butter. 

Eret had spent so much time brewing that a deliberate slice had done nothing but a mere scratch that got healed instantly. It made him angry. Brewing was Wilbur's thing, why could Eret the traitor do it when Wilbur couldn't? It made him angry. Transform into piglin and start swinging the Netehrite ax until it hit something human-shaped, type of angry. He bit his tongue, cutting the threatening grunt that bubbled at the back of his throat. Calm. He needed to be calm, he was a guest.

"So you brew often?"

The dethroned monarch yelped, hands jerking away from the water bottles he was putting on the stand. The fragile glass clinked ominously but nonetheless remained whole.

"Shite! Jesus!" Eret clutched the fabric of his sweater above his heart, whirling around to send Techno his most venomous glare. "Don't  _ do _ that."

"I'm sorry, were you concentrating?" He asked, neither feeling sorry nor at all interested in the others' answer. He propped his elbow on the wooden table. "Careful, we don't want any accidents."

“I don’t  _ need  _ advice from you.”

Techno sighed in frustration, wishing he had his glasses to see the other’s expression better. (Tommy probably had yoinked that as well, now that he thought about it.) Conversations with people like Eret were tiring. He rubbed his face with his hand as if the gesture would magically rub away the exhaustion he felt deep in his soul. He stared Eret down as the younger man began to look unsure after the prolonged silence, pushing up the non-existing sunglasses in what he now knew to be a nervous habit.

"I know just as much about potions as you, and more _.  _ Where do you think Wilbur learned how to brew in the first place? We did it together, on Philza Minecraft's lap before you were even a thought in your parents’ minds, in case you can't make the connection."

Silence descended. Eret looked away, wringing his scarred hands together. Techno nodded in their direction.

"Judging by the scars, I bet that you were given your first blaze rod in that scuffed van of Wilbur's." 

Eret stared down at the digits, something solemn in his demeanor- his fingers trailed over each chemical burn on the skin of his palms as if going through a fond memory. He didn't offer any comments, seemingly lost in thought.

"You're right, he taught me… most of what I know." Techno was aware enough to not push the topic too much. There were issues even he wasn’t willing to thread on.

"What are you brewing anyway?"

"Um." Eret looked at the ingredients around him, seemingly snapping out of whatever trance he had fallen into. He picked up a little jar of magma cream and inspected the green-yellow-red jelly under the sunlight. "Fire resistance I guess? I don't know. I began to brew by habit."

Now that made Techno raise his eyebrows in confusion. Brewing was complicated, costly and dangerous. There were few scenarios in which alchemy could become a habit- active battlefields were one of them, Techno's rarely seen anything short of a Doomsday lead players to actual hard drugs. 

"Habit?"

"Well- yes. L'manburg was blown up, remember?" The ‘ _ by you and Wilbur’ _ went unsaid but Techno was self-aware enough to catch the indirect jab. "The hospitals are either full with burn victims or completely demolished they need- or I guess  _ needed _ the medicine. Healing potions are the new netherite, and clerics are the new rich men- Tubbo and I were the only players good enough at brewing at the time ( _ and also willing to put in the effort _ , went unsaid), and I offered to help since Tubbo was… In any case, at one point I think I spent days in the alchemy room. The wonders of safety precautions, and all that." 

“Yeah, yeah, let’s cut to the chase. I don’t have time for this, Eret.” Techno rested his elbows on the table, frail wood groaning under his weight. “We need each other.”

Eret raised his eyebrows in silent surprise, hurriedly turning to face (look?) at him.

“Do we? I don’t think so, Mr. Technoblade.”

“You’ll starve as soon as the winter comes, there isn’t enough food in this place.” He said. “If not starvation, then the cold- or the zombies. You need the protection, and I need the information you have on Dream- let's make this worth our while.”

“Funny that you say that. Very funny, in fact.” Eret huffed under his breath. He set down the jar of magma cream with a resolute thunk on the counter, eyes never leaving the hybrid. Techno tried not to shiver as those empty white eyes opened like an endless abyss. The former monarch tilted his head to the side, considering. “No, no, no. There’s no way you even know what you did. Wilbur wouldn’t have told you, he was too paranoid at the time- I’m guessing that Dream didn’t share the great news either…”

“Oh, do tell.”

The monarch side-eyed him, judgingly. There wasn’t an ounce of empathy in his expression. The eyes glowed in the faint shadows of the cabin, oozing power that didn’t belong on this server.

“L’mangurg’s food storages are underground. All of them. Dream and Wilbur knew.”

“Oh…”

_ Oh… _

“Well- I certainly didn’t mean to starve the city, I mean- blowing it up was enough.” His anxiety rose through the roof. He was  _ angry  _ that his plans didn’t work out and L’manburg managed to survive what he considered to be a pretty thorough destruction, but he didn’t actually want to make people suffer. A part of him ached- some left-over conscience that sounded suspiciously like Wilbur cried out in outrage at the mental imagery of a starving city. He wanted to eliminate evil for the sake of these people, not kill them- that defeated the purpose.

“Yes, yes.” Eret nodded as if they were talking about the weather and he just agreed that it’s just  _ a bit _ chilly outside. “Burning two-thousand people to death is acceptable, but you draw the line at starvation.”

“I have morals, whether you believe it or not. Principles. I know it’s a foreign word for a traitor, but-”

“No, I don’t believe it” Eret retorted calmly, but his tone of voice did nothing to calm Techno’s rapid heartbeat, muscles ready to- “Not even for a second. You haven’t shown an ounce of regret for what you did to Tubbo-  _ at the very least _ \- because that poor kid will bear the scars of what you did to him for the rest of his life. He's blind in one eye for fuck's sake! He’s  _ covered _ in scars!”

Technoblade looking away with a condescending roll of his eyes.

"I was put on the spot in front of an entire country.” He responded, feeling the insistent prods of irritation. He took a steadying breath through the mouth, tugging at his earring rhythmically. Calm. He steadied his voice, trying to express as much honesty as possible. “I don't hate Tubbo- I barely know him, I didn’t hurt him out of malice, and I didn’t go out of my way to injure him. I refuse to take responsibility for a tyrant’s orders.”

“Orders you followed to the letter from a man you supposedly hate when you could have ignored them? I’m impressed by Schlatt, to be honest, who knew that the only way to tame the scariest anarchist on the server was to put him on the spot.”

Technoblade scoffed under his breath. Tubbo this Tubbo that, he wasn’t in the mood to sympathize with tyrants. Eret either understood or he didn’t.

“Whatever.”

Eret stifled a quiet, if somewhat sardonic, laugh before taking a deep breath. It seemed to center him, even though his expression remained bitter. The former monarch made a gesture as if to take off his missing sunglasses, fingers brushing against his temple. The movement ended in an awkward twitch that transformed into an uncoordinated fumble of limbs. He finally sat down in the chair furthest away from Technoblade in the small cabin.

“You and Dream aren’t that different, you know?” He commented, shifting in his rickety chair. A manicured hand went up to card its fingers through Eret’s brown curls. That small sentence, almost casually cruel, tilted Techno’s world to the side. 

What the fuck did that mean?

‘ _ Both of you have the same ‘the ends justify the means’ attitude for ideals that’ll never be real because you’ve forced everyone else into them, essentially defeating the point of creating a better world if everyone is miserable and living in fear of you :/’ _

_ 'How the fuck did you say ':/' out loud tho?' _

_ ‘Yeah, but have you considered that anarchy good, government bad?” _

He ignored the voices, putting on a crooked smile. He won’t let himself get unbalanced by some  _ child _ in a crown.

“Dream and I are nothing alike.” Dream killed Wilbur, both by giving him the TNT and placing the limited life systems. Techno doesn’t see himself as that far gone yet.

“You two are literally different sides of the same coin. Maybe he’s less of a hypocrite, but yeah. There is no doubt in my mind that you would do the same thing if you had his powers. Hell, you readily exploit the fucked up things he does for your own gain. At least when he bragged about the horrific shit he did, he acknowledged that they were horrific. I guess that didn't stop him either way, but at least he was aware...”

“I don’t remember ever doing any of these things.” He denied, nervously flicking his ears. Getting scolded wasn’t a new experience, he’s been a child just like everyone else, but Eret wasn’t throwing his mistakes in his face. Oh no, the man with a spine of steel in front of him systematically wanted to tear away at his worldview with a pleasant smile on his face. He leaned back, making the frail wood under him groan worryingly under him.

_ ‘We’re here too, duh.’ _

_ ‘One thing more satisfying than static characters are characters that aren’t.’ _

“And I remember being threatened after sharing that I might die permanently. More than once, in fact. At no point during our conversations did I feel as if I were talking to an equal. I felt exactly as I did under Dream's thumb, when he played me around like a puppet- hurting everyone I care about, twisting my words, justifying his actions no matter what. You are two peas in a pod, I won't be surprised if you joined forces despite everything he's done to us.”

Ah. 

He did do that. 

He supposed that Eret was telling the truth about his own feelings as well.

Which would make him on par with Dream… whom he did a huge favor by blowing the country that he’s hated since the beginning. The same country he allied himself with willingly only to betray it later on ̶j̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶E̶r̶e̶t̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶...

Well…

Oh well, fuck.

“Well fuck me then.” He whispered under his breath.

“No thanks, I’m not into furries… Or terrorists.”

“Haha. Hilarious.” Techno mock-laughed, still reeling from the realization. So funny with the furry jabs, that racist twin-

_ ‘Careful now.’ _

Right. He was under a time limit. There were things to do, supplies to gather, preparations to be made. No time for a clash of ideologies, they’ll have an entire winter to sort it out.

His mind was a bit fuzzy- that was kind of normal, right?

_ ‘Shock?’ _

_ ‘Idek. How many emotional blows can you take in a row before things start to tilt sideways?’ _

“It’s no use to overtax your violent little mind, right now. I can list all your flaws and trash your ideology at a later date. Now scram out of my house.” Eret waved vaguely as if patting him on the head- only from a survivable distance. The only thing actively preventing him from lunging at the younger from across the table and taking all the lives he had left was the pair of piercing eyes, seeing things beyond his wildest imagination. He knew a warning sign when he saw one. For now, he took a deep breath, trying to calm down until Chat's volume dulled to a quiet murmur.

“See, I’m not an idiot- you’re too valuable to be left alone.” He declared into the dull silence that had settled over them like a heavy blanket. Eret looked on unblinkingly, hands clasped in his lap. “I know that my offer  _ might _ have been worded like a request, but it’s actually an order. You have two hours to gather everything of value. We’re leaving for my house before sunset, I’m not letting you die with all that information.”

“I refuse.” The former monarch declared calmly as if an ax to the neck wasn’t enough to make him comply.

Bruh.

“I refuse your refusal. Pack your inventory before I have to tie you to Carl’s back like a sack of potatoes.” He got up from his seat, pointing a warning finger at the younger man. “Trust me, I  _ will  _ do it, you won’t be my first kidnapping.”

Eret curled his lips into an expression of disgust, probably at the thought of being carried around in such an undignified way. Technoblade could see him think. Dying with dignity must have its appeal if one considered dying in a half-abandoned village dignified, but Eret valued his own life far more than Tecnoblade’s rage it seemed. It didn't seem to be worth the effort.

“Fine. I will come with you.” The monarch conceded through gritted teeth. Techno mostly felt relieved that he wouldn’t have to deal with the other’s lanky frame kicking and screaming over his shoulder. Scratch that out of the To Do list.

_ ‘You know, we never got to sell the potatoes, now that I think about it.’ _

"On the condition you help me deal with Dream. If I have to stand you for more than an hour at a time, then at least I want my worst enemy dead or gone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl this chapter was a pain and a half. I'm not particularly proud of it, especially since I had to rewrite it thrice. Ig that's what happens when you get overconfident, I was about to stroll in y'all's inboxes with a new chapter as happy as a clam but now I feel more like Boo Boo the Clown.
> 
> Just to mention a few things I don't think I made obvious in the previous chapters because I'm a bad writer:
> 
> -Eret doesn't know how many lives he has left. Dream implied offhand that he was missing lives(s), but he didn't do Eret the favor of telling him exactly how many. It was 100% intentional.  
> -Fundy is not a fox furry. He's a quarter human-quarter piglin on Wilbur's side and half whatever Sally was. He does have an impressive fox pelt he puts above his formal Netherite armor, though.  
> -Hybrids aren't the woobified version I've been seeing around where it's just humans but with furry ears, if you want a hybrid baby you have to get it on with another species. Wilbur and Techno's Ma was a Player, and their Da a big shot piglin brute back in the day. (I can explain everything in a separate, non-narrative chapter if you want me to. Kind of like a meta corner since I won't be able to cram every single detail in this story)  
> -All hybrids are the result of a passed Harkness test. Except maybe Ranboo, but idk what his deal is so we'll cross that bridge later on.  
> -Some of you might've noticed that Tubbo flip-flops between labeling Wilbur his brother and his cousin, that's because he has no idea where he stands in his own family. The only constant is Tommy.  
> -Eret might appear mean and to be overexaggerating, but the Minecraft family is MESSED UP. Trust me, there is so much abusive shit happening behind the curtains you won't believe. 
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoyed. Leave kudos and leave comments.
> 
> I will be back, I think.


	8. Interlude 4: Philza Minecraft enters the scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil travels towards L'manburg and meets someone unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1/2. Just a little disclaimer, I don't have a beta so this is all me lmao.

Phil should have predicted the snowstorm before he even left Techno’s place. The signs were obvious if he had the patience to look for them, but he was who he was and he tended to ignore what was in front of him. He wasn’t in danger of hypothermia or anything- he hasn’t felt cold (or hot, for that matter) in a long, long time, but the winds prevented him from flying, and the white snow lowered his visibility. It became cumbersome when he traveled further distances, which was why he spent the last few hours mentally berating himself for his lack of foresight.

“Fucking snow,” He muttered under his breath, hand holding onto his bucket hat for dear life.

Still, he trudged on. To be honest, he didn't know exactly why he was going through the trouble. Maybe to try and make amends, or finally see the country Wilbur died for (or maybe he was curious of the country's library, visited by demons, acolytes, and other strange creatures of all walks in life. Everything was worth a shot at this point.) The wind blew past him as he stumbled on a buried rock with a surprised grunt. He straightened from his sprawled position with all the confidence of a man who was some good two-thousand blocks away from the closest witness and continued on with his journey. The mushy sentiments was all well and good but he wished he had a fucking torch. That would help, he thought to himself. Phil squinted at the horizon, hoping to see a village or a house. Hell, even a cave was a win at this point, he was better off sleeping through the storm.

Much to his surprise, he could see the welcoming flicker of a burning fire. It was faint, and way too small to be a proper campfire, but it was better than nothing. He would be glad even with a lava pool. If the people were hostile then he didn’t care, he had a wakizashi at his back, and he had an ax- if things came to worse, he had two fists. Determined, he headed in the way of the warm glow, naked feet stepping on the thickening blanket of snow.  The more he approached the light the more it became apparent that it wasn’t the stationary little flame he hoped for. For once it was moving, and the unmanned throng of wagons after it told him that he was in for company. A closer look under the tarps told him that the supplies transported were all food-related. 

Pork, beef, poultry, bushels of vegetables and fruits, and all kinds of grains. Phil frowned. This was curated, trading caravans didn’t carry  _ only  _ food, and especially not from so many different biomes. A normal trader would carry wool and leather, per example, or spun thread and leather articles with the beef. Salted fish, together with the water-loving rice, and dried sea-weed to preserve the fresher catch. From then on it was easier to put the pieces together. There was only so much food one village could trade for, and the closest one was in the opposite direction. The only city big enough to need this much food was L’manburg.

Now all he needed to do was to meet the trader wealthy enough to have farms spawning several biomes. A hunch- just the slightest one- told him it was a fellow Player. 

Phil followed the light.

The trading wagon was longer than he expected, which further confirmed his suspicions, at the end of it, however, he could see the first horse. The stallion didn’t seem to have any difficulty with the snow piles he had to drudge on, the serene animal huffed and snorted steam, but maintained a steady pace. And on top of the horse sat none other than Georgenotfound.

Phil considered murder. There was no man, woman, or child in the server that didn’t know of the… connection George and Dream had with each other. Phil was willing to exploit it for revenge, he wasn’t above killing a subordinate just to make Dream feel pain. His hand climbed towards the sheath of the hilt strapped on his lower back.

“Halt!” Busted. “Who’s there?”

Phil wondered if he could blend in with the horses and pretend that nothing’s happened, but something about the purple glow of George’s longbow told him that he wasn’t  _ that _ lucky. 

“Show yourself or I’ll shoot, and you don’t want to know what Power V does to a human face.”  _ And you don’t want to test my accuracy, _ went unsaid.

“Fine- fine! Jesus Christ. It’s me, Philza!” He approached the younger man with his hands in the air. “Philza Minecraft?”

“Well,” The enchanted bow didn't budge. “If that isn’t a surprise, I never thought I’d meet the kinslayer himself. How are the wings, I heard that L’manburg smelled suspiciously of grilled chicken last month.”

Phil winced- of all the epithets he had, why this one?

“You’re a little shithead, you know that?” He remarked, deciding to let the charade fall along with his hands. “And you shouldn’t throw around names like that. You never know who might take offense.”

“Where’s the fun in that? You killed your son, so you’re a kinslayer. Nothing more and nothing less.” George tilted his head to the side, face unreadable from under the shade of his fur cloak.

“I’ll tell things how they are mate,” Phil stepped forward, uncaring of the arrow steadily pointed in the general direction of his face. “I can’t stand this blizzard for a single second more, and you need someone to scout ahead of you. I propose you lower down the bow, and we reach L’manburg together in one piece.”

“I’m not going to L’manburg.” George denied quickly- far too quickly.

“Yeah, and I’m twelve. I know a lackey on a mission when I see one." 

"I guess it takes one to know one, Emperor  _ Dowager _ ." Phil rolled his eyes. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge George’s pathetic little jab. He took out a torch from his backpack and lit the tip with the other’s stubborn flame, ignoring the minute flinch at the action. He blew softly onto the lump of coal, shielding the little flame on the tip with his hand. Once he could see in front of him he strode forward, smiling at the second take George gave at his naked feet.

“Are you sure that you’ll be let in? I doubt that the President will be happy to see you after you turned his dad into a shish-kebab!” The younger man called out after him.

“I got an invitation- why the fuck would Tubbo not let me in?” He shouted back, taking note of the spruce forest ahead of them.  _ Wilbur wasn’t Tubbo’s father, I am,  _ he didn’t say. It’s never mattered before, Tubbo probably didn’t even remember him.

“Good, because I don’t know how to read the map and we’ll have to follow the Prime Path!”

“So  _ now  _ you’re traveling to L’manburg!”

“Yeah!” His voice grew fainter as Phil pushed forward. “And you’re guiding me there!”

Phil huffed under his breath, sometimes he wondered how these people managed to survive past adulthood. Their survival instincts were almost non-existent.

The deeper he walked into the forest, the warmer it became. The giant evergreens shielded the ground floor from the harsh winds, and all the snow got caught in their branches, leaving the ground uncovered. He could even see a clear footpath that hunters had probably used to hunt game. There was enough space for a horse and a carriage, but nothing more. He supposed it would suffice. Phil looked around once more, just in case. There wasn’t a mob in sight- maybe a creeper had hidden between the foliage, but he preferred being blown to bits than to suffer from snow blindness one second more.

He returned to George soon enough, stopping to pick up some wild berries on the way. The man himself didn’t appear to mind the snow, having placed a pair of thick goggles over his mismatched eyes. He wondered if they were sensitive to the light- Techno’s certainly were- his crimson pupils were more adapted to the low light levels of the Nether and that became obvious the more time he spent outside. Phil still regretted not giving him some protective glasses or something when he was little. 

“Here,” He trusted his bounty into the man’s gloved hands. George took the red berries gingerly, as if unsure of what to do with them. Eventually, he popped one in his mouth, lips tilting up at the sweet taste.

Phil sincerely hoped they weren’t poisonous.

“Thanks, that was nice of you.” The younger commented. “Want some?”

“Don’t mention it, kid- and no, I don’t eat.”

“Well, that’s lucky. So- what did you find?” George asked, eating a few more of the berries.

“A spruce forest a bit down southwest. I think it’s close to the sea-”

“-Wait there’s a sea?”

“Yeah dude, don’t you know your own server?”

“Well yeah, but… we’ll, I’ve been away for a while.”

“...Huh-” Phil tried to not burst into an awkward chuckle. They were in the middle of a snowstorm for fuck’s sake. Still, he's been on the server for less than a month and he already knew his way around, George didn't have an excuse. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“Alright, lets go.” George nodded in his direction as if prompting Phil to guide the way.

* * *

The journey wasn’t as terrible as he predicted it would be. For once he could fly freely once their little traveling convoy once they reached the plains beyond the forest. Soon enough he got tired and landed on the ground. George himself appeared to be in awe of his wings, staring at the appendages like a curious child. Phil let himself be interrogated as he took the geta out of his bag- he didn't appreciate having cuts on the soles of his feet. The snow was soft and he didn't touch the ground at all as he flew, but the uneven soil under him looked unwelcome at best. He smiled in George's direction. It was endearing- in a sense. It reminded him of the old days where Wil was easily impressed and Techno liked to show curiosity.

“And you can- like, hide them whenever you want?”

“Yeah, mate. They don’t exist in the same plane as you and I.” Phil said stretching his left wing as far as it could go. The massive thing reached three meters in length from tip to shoulder blade and was semi-prehensile too. “I just happen to borrow them from time to time.” 

“Wow.” George breathed out as he fed his horse. ”Wait- borrow?”

Phil smirked, his back turned to George.

"I think you don't really want to know, but let's say that the wings belong to someone else. You're watching the tip of an iceberg and what's below the surface is sentient and doesn't like being tangible. It just happens to owe me a lot."

"Spooky."

"It is isn't it." He muttered, sending a silent prayer to the sky goddess. Describing her being as one would an Eldritch monstrosity wasn't a kind depiction, but there were only so many words in the English language he could use accurately. 

They had stopped for the day since the sun was setting quickly and they needed to set up camp to rest (and eat, in George’s case). Normally they wouldn’t need anything of the sort, but carthorses didn’t have the same stamina as gaited horses. Phil himself was willing to wait for the twenty or so animals to be fed, watered, and rested, but he couldn’t help but wonder why was George the one in charge of it all by himself.

“So, why aren’t there any people taking care of this joint?”

“Oh, they all died,” George said matter-of-factly.

“Oh...?” That sucked.

“Yeah. Dream doesn’t know how to plan routes. Villagers are too stupid to eat the food in front of them unless they’re directly told to… neither when to warm up… or to run from zombies. They all died while I was sleeping.”

Ah, Dream. Phil fought the urge to grimace. That piece of shit- almost omnipresent. Also, fuck villagers, they were useful only in established settlements, making them travel was like herding cats unless they choose to do it on their own. He honestly didn't know why he bothered.

“And you can’t read maps, quite the team that you make.”

George smiled faintly, almost succeeding in hiding the pained look in his eyes. Phil sensed an opportunity.

“Yeah.”

"But I'm sure that you've worked it out."

"Aha…"

"Are you alright?" Phil tried to imbue as much fatherly concern in his tone as he could reasonably get away with. He didn't know if it worked since George's expression shuttered, carefully smoothing each concerned twitch of his facial muscles. His poker face was impressive if nothing else.

"Yes, yes. I’m fine. Trouble in paradise, what else is new?" He asked bitterly. Phil didn't offer a consolation, realistically infighting benefitted him despite his lukewarm feelings towards the younger man. 

"I thought you two were on equal footing actually. Or at least that's what I've been told." Phil couldn't resist prodding.

"Yeah, well, rumors are just that- rumors." George retorted before stalking off to the tent he put up for both of them. Phil sighed, folding his wing to his back and letting the pair of appendages fade from existence. He had fishing to do.

Later that night, they ate grilled fish by the small campfire. George even produced a small barrel of beer from somewhere, Phil suspected he stored it in his own inventory. They didn't utter a word to each other except to plan night watch turns. Phil himself didn't need sleep so the solution would have been clear, but he wanted to make George suffer a little bit. Just a little, he justified to himself. For being Dream’s right-hand man.

Also, he didn't want to spend his night doing nothing. Other matters required his attention, such as writing a fuckton of letters in case Tubbo really wanted to avenge his brother and kill him dead. Luckily he brought ink and parchment with him. One went to Technoblade, telling him in excruciating detail what happened in the last two days just in case he needed to track him down and-slash-or avenge his death. The other was for Wilbur and Wilbur only. If there was someone out there that didn't hate him or his son, he would ask them to place it on his grave- if they could be so kind.

(He didn't even know if Tubbo would do him the favour, the festival burnt enough bridges to last a lifetime.)

The final one was for Tubbo himself, as well as Tommy when they turned thirty. If they ever did that is, though something told him that they were too stubborn to die, even when forced by some unknown mechanic. By the time he finished, his hands were covered in ink, and the sun peeked its blinding face from above the treeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know if it's obvious in my writing, but if you notice something different in the writing style that's probably it.
> 
> Side notes aside, don't ask me how the seasons work in this universe. I based most meteorological events on irl stuff, but there is just a smidge of something supernatural. If you look hard enough you'll see that strange stuff is going on. 
> 
> Finally, I want to say that having a healthy relationship with food in a realistic Minecraft setting is hard if you're a Player. Sometimes people like George would prefer being unable to eat at all for legitimate reasons, and I don't think that I'll go in-depth with it, but just be warned it's graphic and uncomfortable. I'll update the tags if I decide to go explicit and expand on the idea.
> 
> Hope you don't mind me rambling lmao, I just have too much lore that I'll never be able to cram in the story.


	9. Searching for the land of milk and honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy suffers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just the beginning.

Tommy greeted the morning on the beach, with a red apple in one hand and his newly forged pickaxe in the other. It rained at that particular time, but Tommy didn’t care all that much. The steady patter of raindrops against the surface of the ocean was better than incessant silence, and the water beating against his scalp was better than no touch at all.

The apple crunched under his teeth, sweet juice filling his mouth. Refreshing. The waves lapped at his feet as the teen wiggled his naked toes at the ticklish feeling of cold water against his sand-covered skin. He wasn’t stupid enough to wear those posh cotton socks from the modern servers he liked, it was the fastest way to lose a foot or two. He finished the apple slowly, almost like one would a chore. It was delicious and he was hungry, but satisfying his basic needs was the last thing on his mind.

A bird chirped in the distance.

A shiver ran down his spine. There was something wrong with the server, he could feel it in his very bones. The air didn’t smell right, the animals didn’t behave like they ought to, trees grew in strange shapes and the ore veins were smaller the further away from spawn they formed. He wasn’t experienced in stuff like that, but he knew that something wasn’t quite right.

(The question was for how long has this been happening? If Tommy could name one flaw of his, it would be his inattentiveness.)

The rain continued to beat against his skin through the threadbare shirt he wore, making the light material stick to him. He was lucky that the humidity didn't make his scars ache like they did Wilbur's, otherwise the entire experience would have been ten times more miserable. He had to look at the positives. He lifted his head and looked at the morning sky. It was beautiful, he had to admit. Despite the heavy clouds the stubborn sun still pierced through the mist, casting light upon him.

* * *

_ "Now that we have the opportunity to focus on the disks, you chose to play Dream’s games? It was supposed to be different if you were in charge, Tubbo!" _

_ "Forget the disks! The disks don't matter! What matters are the twenty thousand people who will starve during the winter! I need to keep the treaty Dream and I signed, Tommy! No matter what!" _

_ "He's fooling you! He went behind your back and made you sign a contract while you were on your deathbed!" _

_ "It doesn't matter how he made me sign it! We need help after the mess Wilbur made!" _

_ “We all made this mess! Including Dream! The shitty deal he’s offering you is not worth our freedom!” _

_ “It’s done, Tommy. I can’t do anything at this point. You’ll have to leave.” _

_ “What-?” _

_ “I want you out of this country. By dawn.” _

* * *

Tubbo was right. (As always, that little-) L’manburg was worth two disks, but two disks weren’t worth L’manburg.

* * *

Life in exile was tedious without company. Everything was a chore- even grieving. 

(They already buried Wilbur, right? Yesterday? Last week? Surely they did- he missed him.)

Not that he had time to do that even. Survival was his most pressing issue. Food was scarce, clothes even scarcer, and materials the scarcest.

Ding, ding, ding, ding, went the pickaxe against the stone- more unyielding than bedrock. Fuck Dream. He could shove  _ Nightmare _ up his arse and die. That green bastard took everything he had- didn’t even leave an Enderchest, the arse. 

Bastard-bitch. 

Prick.

Dickhead.

The monotony of it all actually kind of reminded him of the first days in the server, back when working hard for the things one owned mattered. The bitterness made him scowl. He owned the first Netherite chest plate in the server then, made with a lot of hard work and Tubbo’s helpful input. Dream had taken that too, just as he took his entire inventory last week (month?). Tommy cursed the man once again under his breath, fingers scraping away at the last pieces of coal the vein had to offer him.

He should’ve known that Dream was a wrongin’ even back then.

The youth ceased in his attempts to bleed the vein dry- it wasn’t even worth it, he could feel himself getting lightheaded from the lack of oxygen this close to the void. This particular cave was useless to him anyway. All that had remained was coal, which he needed for the small makeshift forge he created some paces away from his tent. He hated smithing- he’s never been good at it, Tubbo and Fundy were the ones who used to spend their days hammering at the anvil while Tommy could only mine the materials they needed. The lopsided pickaxe in his hand was proof enough.

He peeked over the edge of the cave, making sure that there weren’t any mobs around. He hated returning from mining during nighttime, it was the ideal way to lose all the valuable shit he carried. Fortunately for him, there wasn’t a single creature that could spot him close-by. The group of three zombies close to the entrance of the cave were practically blind, and the skeleton a few paces away relied solely on the vibrations in the air- the creeper waddling through the dense foliage in front of him wouldn’t even be able to feel his body heat. Tommy was good to go.

* * *

He half-heartedly patted the woolen cot under him- as if that would soften the hard ground. He couldn’t complain really, it kept him warm and dry, and that was the best he could ask for given the circumstances. This wasn't the first time Tommy Danger Careful Kraken Innit has hit rock bottom. He did it countless times during the first wars and back when Business Bay was just getting started. He's slept in ditches, trenches, ravines, abandoned buildings, holes in the ground, other people's basements- whatever miserable little nook he could fit his body into, name it, he's probably squatted in it at some point.

("When the war is over I'm gonna build the biggest house on the server."

"Yeah?"

They huddled closer together under the threadbare blanket.

"Yeah. It will have a fireplace too, so we won't be cold anymore."

"That sounds good Tubbo.")

The point was, dickhead, that he wasn't going to whine about it. Sure, the beach was colder than Technoblade's heart and was further away from L’manburg than Pogtopia ever was, but he could deal with it. He didn't even want to think about it, that's how over the entire thing he was. He could feel the burning worry every time he thought of Tubbo (Is he sleeping? Eating well? Has his eyesight come back?) and the incandescent rage on behalf of L’manburg. Maybe it was hunger, he hasn’t eaten the whole day… Hah, who cared?

Regrets were for pussies. 

* * *

_ “If we stop caring for the citizens, how long will it take until we stop caring for our fellow Players? Tommy, we’re talking about living creatures, treat them as your own brothers and they will follow you to the end of the world. People repay kindness.” _

_ “Yes, Wil.” _

* * *

_ In the corner of Tommy's childhood room, there used to be a loom. He had loved it at first sight- it was part of the reason why he chose a bedroom so far from Tubbo and Wilbur’s. His friend had grumbled and whined at the forced distance between them like the clingy little barnacle that he was, but Tommy had reassured him that they weren’t any less close just because they slept further away from each other. _

_ Wilbur had been tougher to convince, even moving to a new room seemed too much to him. He was already suffering from empty-nest syndrome when Fundy left for college last summer and anything remotely connected to change sent him spiraling, but Tommy couldn’t be budged. He spent almost an entire year prodding and insisting until the older got fed up with the topic. They finally reached a compromise when he also promised to clean the old thing and move his toys, his books, and all of his clothes on his own. Twelve-year-old him had been serious too. _

_ The loom became a goal- what did it do? How did it do it? It became a goal to find out. Tommy had been sure that he could do cool shit with the loom gave enough time to learn. Both Wilbur and Tubbo had rolled their eyes at the time, Wilbur went as far as to nudge the other with a conspiratorial wink. They didn’t believe that he would stick to it. Which was fair, if he were honest. _

_ But then he did it. _

_ Even Tubbo couldn't hide his surprise when their twelfth summer was spent with fewer games in the open fields and more quiet evenings in the mansion's, studying how to work with the complicated mechanisms and tough wool. Tommy was fascinated. He was never good with his words- they were too complicated, too inexpressive for his true feelings. The stitches became his letters, the fabrics his words- like a composed speech that was more sincere than anything he could ever utter. _

_ He began simple, with scarves for Tubbo that said 'it's so fun to be with you' and beanies for Wilbur that spelled 'you've given me so much, thank you.' Then sweaters for 'I love you', then socks for 'Take care', then pants for 'You're doing great'. Spun wool became woolen fabric, weaved irregularly, but nonetheless used to its full potential. Wool then became silk, and then even fancier stuff from the modern servers. _

_ The stitches weaved under his deft fingers as if on their own, much to everyone's amazement. He made a jacket for Fundy when the teen visited for his birthday, he made a bag with all the fancy enchantments for Wilbur to carry his stuff, and he made Tubbo the softest shirt in the world. _

_ Other stuff he sold. The posh people from the modern servers loved hand-made clothes, so he made a pretty penny. (And the money went to Wilbur, who couldn't support two kids and a teen in college with the measly dimes Philza sent as allowance.) The loom became the closest thing to a journal he had, if he were to go back to that old childhood bedroom he would be able to read every single passage.  _

_ Maybe even write in it again. _

* * *

He woke up in his room, loom standing sturdy in the corner of his eye. The golden sunlight shone through his curtained window- oddly bright and bathing the small bedroom in light and warmth. He stood up and stretched his arms towards the ceiling. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he took a step forward. His cautious fingers reached towards his desk- brushing over his old notebook filled with scribbles from Wilbur’s lessons.

His and Tubbo’s picture from when they were tots.

The well-loved teddy bear Fundy sent him for his tenth birthday. 

Some old books that were once (Uncle? Big Brother?) Technoblade’s.

He stepped away. There were other, more urgent things to do than look at old memories. 

Tommy opened the door separating his room from the rest of the empty mansion he called home, glancing from side to side as if he were crossing a street. He briefly contemplated going to Tubbo’s room some three doors down the hall, but ultimately decided to go to the lower floor. He stepped forward cautiously, feeling nervous despite the complete domesticity of the scene.

The hallway looked normal, but compared to the impenetrable light that poked through the parted curtains, the whole trek downstairs was pitch black. It was understandable, there weren’t any windows on the walls. Though Tommy… didn’t remember the house to be this dark.

He heard Wilbur before he saw him. That gentle strumming of the guitar wafted through the house, so  _ so  _ familiar. Tommy thought he was going to cry, he hadn’t heard that sound in so long.

He thought he was prepared to see Wilbur, but the moment he saw his hunched form sitting on the windowsill he froze. 

Wasn't he playing just a moment ago?

The older man didn't look at him, but Tommy approached the other nonetheless, naked feet freezing against the cold, spruce planks. He didn't dare utter a word- what could possibly be said in this situation? All he could do was bask in the silence like a small child waiting for the adults to talk first.

Wilbur turned. The blinding light obscured his face instead of revealing the familiar features. The older opened his mouth to speak and Tommy's heart skipped a beat in anticipation only to-

-sea-water invaded Tommy’s lungs, bitingly cold. Tommy wheezed, choking and limbs flailing in a panicked attempt to lift himself from the shallow sea. He turned on his side, desperate to get some air in his clogging lungs which only resulted in a painful heave that lit his entire torso on fire. He puked more and more water, a never-ending pool of liquid salt, coughing his lungs out in between. By the time he could breathe again his chest felt on fire and his throat was burnt with acid. 

Pitiful tears streamed down his face.

(He wanted Wilbur, he Wanted Tubbo, he wanted Niki, and Eret and Jack, anyone that could make it better.)

Tommy slumped on the sand, staring at the night sky. It was fine. Clara was watching over him, as long as there were stars in the sky he was going to be fine. He stayed like that for a while- just catching his breath, wishing he could go back to sleep. His limbs felt like jello, but he heaved himself up. He cleared his throat, grimacing at the coppery taste at the back of his mouth. He spat the blood, watching the dark glob of spit get washed away by the waves. He wished they would take him away too.

* * *

_ Apparently, the loom was left behind by the old woman who used to housekeep for Phil, back when he was around. She was the one who crafted most of the blankets and clothes around the house and the loom was but a fraction of the tools she left behind. There was a part of the attic specifically designated for the mannequins and other machines she used. At one point Tommy even found her diary, scribbled with personal notes and daily routines. When he showed the weathered notebook to Wilbur, the older had shrugged. She had died a while ago, he said- when he and Technoblade were still children. Her name had been Dara. _

_ Tommy didn’t understand what ‘death’ entailed at the time. _

_ "That's how it is with villagers." His older brother shrugged, hands steadily peeling a potato. "They're born, they grow up and they die." _

_ "Did she fight a monster?" _

_ "What?" Wilbur's face scrunched in confusion. God he was so ugly. Sometimes Tommy pitied his face. "Why would an old woman- oh." _

_ Wilbur paused in his work, discarding the potato peeler on the counter. His face went unusually solemn- the sudden change in demeanor made Tommy squirm. _

_ "Tommy, do you remember when we tried to get you and Tubbo in school but the other kids kept teasing you for being too little?" Tommy nodded, remembering how not poggers that part was. He loved going to school but eventually… "I didn't tell you at the time because you wouldn’t have understood, but everyone made fun of you because they knew you and Tubbo were different. They were angry because deep down, they knew that." _

_ "B-but what's so different? Me and Tubbo could play grown-up games with them- I studied hard like everyone else! Why?" _

_ "Tommy," Wilbur laid a calming palm on the top of his head with a sigh. "I don't know how to explain it to you, but- alright let's use an example. Tubbo loves bees right?” _

_ Tommy rolled his eyes with a sigh, suddenly exasperated- they've had this conversation many times. _

_ "No, Willbur, Tubbo wants to become a bee, there's a difference." Or at least Tubbo insisted there was, so who was Tommy to contradict him? _

_ "Yeah sure Let's go with that." Then, under his breath, "Isn't that the same as liking them? Gods what is wrong with these fucking kids." _

_ Tommy frowned with disapproval, crossing his arms like he's seen Fundy do when angry. Wilbur, as with Fundy, ignored his righteous anger in order to curl one of Tommy's blond ringlets around his finger with a look of utter fondness. Tommy slapped the hand away with an indignant pout, happy at Wilbur’s startled yelp. He hated when Wilbur did that, it made him feel like a baby. The older man cleared his throat behind his fist and continued with the explanation. _

_ "Tubbo wants to become a bee, right? But bees are very different from us. It takes them days to grow up, then then they work for weeks until they get so old that they die. They don't get killed or anything, it's just what happens. Their bodies get too tired- you’ve seen the hives. Same with the villagers, they look like us but they're not like us, and despite Tubbo's sincerest wishes he can't become a bee. Just like we can't fit with the people in the city." Wilbur paused, contemplative. "When I sent you to that school I did it for you two’s sake, but it ended up hurting you. I’m sorry, Toms. I wanted you to have someone besides me and Tubbo, just as I wanted Tubbo to have someone else."  _

_ Tommy bit his lip, trying to hold back tears. He didn’t want anyone else aside from Wil and Tubbo, others only made fun of him. _

_ “Gods, how did we get here, I just wanted to explain the concept of death to a thirteen-year-old.” _

_ His head perked up as the cold feeling of dread settled in his tummy, like that time Tubbo fell from the roof of the barn and broke his ankle, and Tommy had to figure out how a communicator worked to message Wilbur for help. _

_ "Does that- does that mean you're going to die? Are you getting old?" His voice trembled with the sudden realization. He didn't want Wilbur to die. Not ever. Even if he turned a hundred thousand years old. Even if he became old like Dara and couldn’t see the stitches like her. He clung to his brother, burying his face in the yellow sweater. _

_ Wilbur gave out a surprised oof, gingerly hugging Tommy back as the boy tried to pretend that he wasn't bawling his eyes out on his brother's chest. _

_ "What? No, no, no.” Wilbur shushed him, wiping his tears with his thumbs. “That's what I wanted to tell you, Tommy. We can't die. Ever. I'll never ever leave you, Tubbo, or Fundy. It's impossible. Even if the villagers do. The four of us are special. We're connected. I promise." Wilbur smiled, offering a pinky to solidify the contract. Tommy, still red-faced and hiccuping latched onto the offered digit with his own like a lifeline.  _

_ The clouds in the sky parted, letting the light shine through the window behind him, bathing everything in gold. _

* * *

  
(He promised- why did he lie?)

(Does it matter you, big baby, he’s  _ gone _ . He didn’t even care all that much about you, or Tubbo- or even Fundy.)

His fingers ached to pick up a needle, to sit in front of a loom, to measure a mannequin, to dye a piece of fabric, to cut some ribbons.

(-to eat a honeycake and drink fresh milk with Tubbo, to listen to Wilbur’s songs, and lay in front of a fireplace.) 

He picked his pickaxe instead- the wounds on his palms stung against the coarse wood of the handle. His skin had blistered and peeled off from so much mining. That didn't matter, though. He could do it, he could go back to Tubbo and the rest if he tried hard enough. There was no point in dwelling on the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh, spaghettio Tommy finally makes an appearance and he isn't having a great time. Well, this chapter was basically exposition, dreams and a bunch of disjointed flashbacks, you love to see it. 
> 
> Also... are Clara and Phil's sky goddess different divinities? *Thinking face emoji*
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed, you wouldn't believe how much your kind words encourage me to write more and get the inspiration. A little positive reinforcement can do a lot for a lil' ol' writer like me and I appreciate it immensely :)


	10. Interlude 5: Philza Minecraft messes with the scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil does some chorin', and Dream makes a nuisance of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an official upload schedule, I'm a real writer, now. Updates will be coming up every Sunday/Monday aka once a week, yay!

They reached the end of their journey without any further complications. The plains they passed through gave way to a sparse oak forest that became yet another plain. At the edge of said plain was a river and beyond the river, the barren wheat fields of L’manburg.

Phil got the picture. 

The more they neared the country the colder George got in both senses of the word. Soon enough he put back his fur-lined cloak, as they traveled in awkward silence. The only positive was that it didn't snow again. Phil would fly freely over the stray farmhouse or two, watching as the population became denser and denser. 

At this point, he and George parted ways, the younger one busy with the delivery of the supplies right at the border. Phil didn't care all that much for the other’s affairs, if he were honest, he had other things to do so he left him behind to his own devices. He glided his way to the top of the highest skyscraper, seeing the open doors for the stairs. He honestly didn't understand the appeal of modernity. It all seemed too artificial for his tastes- tight too, a man couldn’t spread his wings in peace.  He climbed down the stairs casually, hands hidden in the folds of his sleeves.

One thing he appreciated was the view. Sure, L’manburg looked like a mining hole from the old prison servers, but he saw Wilbur's vision in the cobblestoned paths and lovingly built houses.

In fact, a couple of ideas began to pop up in his head as he observed the deep hole in the ground. He could see the underground structure of the city- some of Tommy's work if his memory of Wilbur’s infrequent letters held true. The river that bordered the sprawling city led to the sea, he could connect the sewers to it and make a port-

"Ehem." 

He whirled around, hand tightly gripping the wakizashi on his back.

"Oh- Jesus!" He sputtered, hand landing on his thumping heart. The familiar man quirked his eyebrows, posture casual with a clipboard under his armpit.

"Philza Minecraft, right?" The young man asked, not looking particularly interested in his answer. Or his presence in general. Rude little shit.

"Yeah. And you are…?"

"Quackity. Tubbo's VP." Was the curt answer. 

"Ah yes. I’ve heard of you, Nothing  _ too  _ flattering."  Quackity's mouth turned down in a faint frown, but he didn't appear to be particularly offended.

"That's fine, I guess. I suppose you won't tell me why you're here." The VP commented.

"I was invited." Was his equally curt response. The younger didn't appear to be surprised, shoving his hands in the expensive-looking suit pants. Phil honestly didn't know why the other bothered with the formal outfit since most of his hair was covered in a beanie.

"By whom?"

"Tubbo."

"Ah. I see." Quackity nodded.

"Do you disapprove?" They didn't want any problems, did they?

"Naaah- not particularly. I just think that Tubbo made the decision in an… let's say,  _ inopportune  _ moment. I'm sure you've noticed by now, but the winter is a bit harsh on us."

"Hash enough to ask for provisions?"

"How did you-?"

"Georgenotfound is dealing with your border patrols in this very instant." He pointed towards the approximate direction of his former traveling companion. “Northern gate, if I’m correct. Thought you'd like to know.”

Quackity scowled outright at that. He took out his communicator- something Phil rarely saw in this particular server- and typed out a quick message to someone. 

"Well." The younger man said after a period of concentrated silence, gaze not parting from the holographic screen in front of him. "I wouldn't want to be the one keeping you away from… whatever you want to do here, then. Bye."

And just like that, the only man he could've asked for directions was gone in a flurry of black and white, the clack of his heeled shoes echoing down the marble stairs. Phil couldn't understand the modern-worlders. What was the point of life if you spent it away working?

Depressing.

Nonetheless, he followed the younger's footsteps down the stairs, greeting the surprised-looking secretary in the lobby one floor below.

In fact he-

Phil stopped mid-step, turning to the startled girl’s direction. She blinked at him with a pair of wide brown eyes- almost like a calf's. Friendly enough, he supposed.

"Hello." He greeted with a half-hearted wave. "Excuse me for the intrusion. Can you tell me where Tu- President Tubbo is?"

"Well- Uhm, I have to check?” She looked down at her computer nervously. “I’m very sorry sir, I don't keep track of the President's whereabouts. I- I mainly work for Mr. Quackity, I'll have to check on- would you excuse me for a second?"

She bolted out of her desk before he could even answer, her heels, not unlike Quackity's clacked against the floor as she disappeared around the corner.

"Guards!"

This must be a prank from the gods, except he wasn’t laughing. Phil bolted, hyper-aware of the security team on his tails. What even-? He looked around. Those big panoramic windows that overlooked the square… it would be a shame if someone-

Phil's wings unfurled just as he threw his whole body weight on the fragile glass.

-were to smash through them.

The air resistance around him felt like coming home. He spread his wings further, letting them break his fall as he glided closer to ground level. He beat in the air once, twice- then he let go. The sky welcomed him with open arms.

He needed to find Tubbo and end this nonsense ASAP. 

* * *

One thing he liked about flying was the perspective of the world it gave him. A bird’s eye view, if you will.  As he oversaw people's daily lives he couldn't help but think that particular musing was true. All of that rebuilding and for what?

No one was willing to build a proper port even before the explosion, the roads were filled with holes, there were no defensive walls to speak of around the ever-expanding borders, and winter was just around the corner. Wilbur had been cruel in installing Tubbo as the President. The kid wouldn't be able to handle the responsibility in the first place, and giving him hope that he could fix something so deeply broken was unfair.

Phil may be old and quite separated from all that was material, but he could see the hunger in people's eyes. He's seen how the story goes a thousand times over. L’manburg simply had the luxury of being a villager city- NPC's couldn't exactly rebel. All they could do was starve slowly- wilt like flowers that haven’t been watered. The dust may have settled but the unrest L’manburgs fall had caused wasn't gone. Perhaps that was why he wasn't surprised at Tubbo's appearance and terse demeanor.

The kid had aged considerably since he last saw him during the Saint-Malo Trials (and wasn't that a sore memory- watching Techno's life's work being torn to pieces was radicalizing at best.) The scars were new, he noted. Ugly, if he confessed in the privacy of his mind, adding considerably to the expression of abject exhaustion that didn't seem to leave the younger one no matter what. Despite that, Tubbo's back was straight and his body language open, as he walked down the dock on which Phil chose to land on.

"Tubbo! It's so hard to find you mate, where have you been?" Phil exclaimed in greeting. He carefully straightened the rumpled folds of his outermost yukata, suddenly aware of his underdressed state and dirty clothes. 

"Phil, it's nice to see you again, I thought you wouldn't come." Tubbo smiled and lifted a hand in greeting, understandably hesitant. “I’m glad you did, despite everything.”

For all he knew, Phil killed his oldest brother as soon as he came to the server. Nonetheless, their clasped arms as kin ought to, and he allowed himself to embrace the teen. Predictably his son stiffened in his hold, awkwardly patting his back before putting some distance between them. He tried not to get offended at the dismissal.

"Of course I would- you invited me didn’t you? How's it been?"

"Oh, you know." Tubbo rubbed the back of his head. "Rebuilding, trying to get some work done before it's too cold."

Phil made a show of looking around. He's never been one for urban planning. His builds were large and opulent- a show of skill and wealth rather than anything practical. Little cottages and markets have never been his point of interest, but he appreciated the work it took.

He nodded appreciatively.

"You're doing a great job- your blueprints?"

"Yeah, we need more housing for the citizens. Do you want a tour of the city? I can take you to Wilbur's grave." He whispered the last part as if anyone in the vicinity would care at all. As if it was a shameful affair they had to keep secret- Phil supposed it was. Former Presidents were taboo around these parts and all that.

"I'd like that," Phil confirmed in the same tone, hand drifting towards the letter folded in his inner pocket.

L’manburg was impressive in its simplicity. Wilbur is-  _ was _ , Wilbur was a practical man and his country reflected that.

"And here," Tubbo gestured toward the ashy crater in the heart of L’manburg. "Will be the Player district."

"Nice." He nodded.

"Yeah, it's too dangerous for the villagers, but I think that there's a lot of space Players can use to build and expand their houses and stuff. Fundy's been planning some underground farms on the western part and Ranboo already built his house." Tubbo pointed at the quaint little cottage connected to the mainland via a wooden platform. Someone has built a floating street above the crater, connecting edge to edge. Probably for easier transportation.

Phil was curious.

"Can I build a house here?"

Tubbo's look of surprise was almost comical, double-take and all.

* * *

They didn't talk about a lot of things after that. Tubbo exuded eagerness under the gloomy exterior, but he didn't offer more information than he was asked. The visit to Wilbur's grave was uncomfortably unremarkable. They both paid their respects. Tubbo whispered a few confessions to the headstone, before getting up from his kneeling position to give Phil some privacy. Phil buried the letter in the soil, praying that it would reach his son in one way or another. A moment of silence passed between them as Tubbo pretended he wasn't watching his every move curiously. Phil sighed, hands clasped in prayer, resigned at the impending interrogation. He turned from his praying position in front of the blank headstone.

"You can ask me whatever, Tubbo."

"Why did you agree to come- or to stay for that matter? I thought you hated L’manburg."

Children always asked the toughest questions, didn’t they? Phil exhaled harshly through the nose.

"I do in a certain way- It's very complicated- something I'll have to figure out for myself, I guess." At least he hoped he could sort the violent mess of grief and pride fighting for dominance in his chest sometime soon. Otherwise, they were off to a bad start, if he was going to live here. “Maybe… I don't know. Maybe I should think it over.”

Where should he even begin to dismantle the feelings concerning the land he stood on? He ran, initially. Even then the grief was tinged with confusion and disbelief. Techno’s familiar presence had brought him comfort. Then the implications of what he’d done settled in and both of them had been inconsolable. His eldest succumbed to the voices in his own head and he was left to wander the empty cottage, just thinking of what-ifs. 

Phil suspected that his thoughts showed themselves on his face.

“Ah,” Tubbo said, and they left it at that, though Phil could the other brim with questions. They remained huddled together in the small graveyard, each stuck their own heads. They simply didn’t know what to say to each other, the words couldn't breach the distance between effectively enough. “We can work something out, big man. Nothing is set in stone.”

  
  


* * *

He stayed three days to gather materials for his new residence. During that period of time, he barely heard from Tubbo- or any other Player for that matter. The President had mentioned some bloke called Ranboo as well, but snooping around his house hadn’t given him anything of value except half-a-dozen oak saplings, no owner in sight. It was understandable, he mused to himself. L´manburg was big and struggling, he wouldn't be surprised if all of Tubbo´s time went to maintaining the city running. The more time Phil spent on the server, the more he realized that this Schlatt fellow had no idea how to rule a country. A company, yes, even Phil's neck of the woods knew about Schlattcoins, mining multi-serveral corporations, and all that. 

He could see all the economic progress L’manburg had made- rapid industrialization, territory expansion, focus on production, modern infrastructure, whatever. That would have been perfect in a more established server, but at this very moment, the country was missing literally everything else. There was a reason Wilbur had built a wall around the borders, just as there was a reason why L’manburg was kept small and close to a water source. A sudden leap into an industrial revolution would have finished the job quicker than the TNT ever could.

Still, he wondered. That Quackity fellow didn't seem as preoccupied with the current state of affairs despite the inevitable trainwreck Phil was foreseeing. He was sure that out of Tubbo’s staff he had the most experience in these matters.

In any case-

If nothing else, L´manburg was a busy city. Past terrorist attacks, several wars, and the impending winter didn't dampen the humdrum of its inhabitants. There was an underlying sense of community Phil didn't think was possible with a bunch of villagers, but he was nonetheless impressed. From what he could observe everyone was connected to L’manburgin one way or another- families, which were normally fractured due to breeding programs, were whole and stable. Businesses formed guilds, neighbors built communities and everyone worked under a coherent administration- it was baffling to Phil who only knew how to make closed-off facilities for farming.

He spent the rest of his day in the woods, chopping down trees and tossing them to the un-horsed cart he brought by himself. Midday became sunset, which then became dusk. By the time he replanted the last tree sapling, it was almost pitch black. Phil straightened from the uncomfortable crouching position in which he spent the last ten minutes with a so-called ‘dad groan’ which he would never admit to making. His instincts were prodding at him. It was time to go back he decided as he casually sheathed his ax.

* * *

Dream was here. Of course, motherfucking Dream “Administrator” Was Taken was here, when had things gone Phil’s way, like ever? The man could barely stifle a groan as he watched from the sidelines as Tubbo and his merry band greeted the green fuck with an entire procession. He turned to squint at the crowd, letting his face smooth over as he spotted a familiar pair of goggles between two young ladies who appeared to be way too interested in the Admin. He glared at George with an expression that could turn a grown man into a puddle, only to get a smug smile in return.

The little shit knew this was going to happen.

"Philza Minecraft- what a surprise! I thought you left after the war!"

Dream.

"You thought wrong then, Admin." He feigned nonchalance. It didn’t go unnoticed that the owner of the server completely ignored Tubbo in favor of the newcomer. 

"Oh come on, wasn't it  _ fun _ ? I mean, it's just like Harcore now, right? Everyone has one life. I thought I did pretty well if I'm honest. The "afterlife" is something special." That was news to Phil.

He  _ suspected _ that Dream had something to do with Wilbur's demise, having a solid confession only fanned the flames of his anger. Despite the rage he felt, however, something prodded his sense of danger. Something that made him want to flee and hide from Dream's green eyes as quickly as possible with his loved ones in toll. Administrators were unnatural beings that could sometimes be unnerving, true, but Phil’s instincts rarely overexaggerated.

His eyes flickered in Tubbo’s direction. Just for a split second, a minimal flicker that not even Dream’s hawk-eyed gaze would notice. The President looked nonchalant on the surface, mask perfectly placed for the occasion, but Phil could see the underlying change of demeanor. Anger and… confusion? Did he know about this?

He and Tubbo had to have a  _ talk _ .

The admin’s veiled face didn't give away anything, but the fucker looked ready to go to war so that was pretty telling. At some point he had to take the Netherite off, right? Even he got tired of lugging eighty pounds of Netherite-Gold alloy cast over heavy diamond plates, and he couldn’t feel pain. Not to mention that the chainmail over his veil was obnoxious- it just made Phil's hand itch to reach for his weapon and slash. Dream tilted his head to the side like a curious dog, full-body armor clanking at the faintest shift. 

"Didn't you know?"

No.

"Yes, I did. I'm not that out of the loop yet." He winked. 

Tubbo's expression twitched briefly behind Dream's back, but Phil pretended he didn't notice. He had a Teletubby to roast in front of some good one-hundred people.

"I wouldn't say you did a good job, though. I've never seen a stupider stunt before, way to make everyone hate you. Your parents must be furious." Phil paused. "Because they know you're doing this, right?"

Dream's head snapped in his direction so quickly Phil thought he got whiplash. The younger being had no parents- more like handlers really, Phil couldn't be bothered to understand the manchild’s relationship with the older Administrators. Not that they did that good of a job in the first place, if Dream grew up to terrorize Players and use people as pawns. Wasted potential, he’d say. This place could have been a Utopia if the man in front of him could control his ego and anger issues a bit better.

(He’d still have a son too, but he was trying not to cry, so that thought was safely locked away.)

What he did know was that Dream’s relationships were fucked since his little temper tantrum during the L’manburg war, and he could use that to his advantage. Predictably the Administrator resorted to violence, his ax materialized in his hand almost instantly sweeping over their heads in an impressive unnecessary swing. The arse had the weapon at hand from the beginning. Good, that meant he was scared- or arrogant- both were good news for Phil. 

He could feel his non-existent feathers ruffle.

"No-!"

"Tubbo, don't!"

The President practically jumped between them, his Vice President right after him to pull the younger man back by the scruff of his immaculate suit. Tubbo had brandished his diamond sword with a concerning amount of eagerness- Phil would bet that he wanted to go straight for the jugular too.

(This wasn’t worth it, what was he thinking?)

"We don't want a fight." He said mildly to Dream, inexplicably desperate to distract him from Tubbo’s murder attempt.

"We don’t, don't we?" Gods, his voice was disgusting to listen to.

"Unless you really, really want to. I promise I won’t go for the tender spots." His gaze flickered towards the crowd where they both knew that George looked on. I'd be so easy to lunge forward, place his hand on that defenceless head and  _ squeeze _ . Violence came easy to Phil as of late, the same could be said about the rest of the server apparently.

There wasn't a single flicker of emotion in Dream's eyes.

Huh…

"Fine," the Admin conceded, nonetheless. There was something slimy in his voice that Phil didn’t want to touch with a five-foot pole, so he stepped away just in case. The tension seemed to- not exactly disappear- but at least become bearable at the gesture. The Admin set his ax aside. Behind Dream, Tubbo let out a relieved breath as his whole cabinet relaxed their tight postures as one. Tubbo himself appeared to steel himself before clearing his throat. Dream’s head turned in the President’s direction way too fluidly for it to be natural.

Phil suppressed a shiver, Something was up.

“Dream, I think we should continue our meeting somewhere… private.”

Another head-tilt. Did he do that before?

“That’s a good idea, Tubbo.” The Admin turned in his direction. “Goodbye Philza Minecraft, it was nice chatting with you.” The Admin offered a handshake which Phil took almost begrudgingly.

“I wish I could say the same.”

His jab was ignored.

“Come on Tubbo, it’s a great day for negotiation. You and I need to have a chat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are sliding into place- at least for me, hah. 
> 
> Fun fact, Big Q definitely knew that Phil was gonna get chased out by security, he did it on purpose. Many characters do things on purpose just to mess with others :) 
> 
> Also, I'm not saying I predicted Technoblade's character progression via Eret, but I totally did. Phew, the plot thickens with each stream, doesn't it? Feel free to comment on what you think.
> 
> Tell me if my formating is trash and leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed because according to my Ao3 statistics 6.2- *disappears into the void*


End file.
